Of Sand and Distant Shores
by Cannibalistic Skittles
Summary: Éponine was displeased enough to be escorting Marius' future bride on the voyage. Capture, even by such an odd crew as this, pushes her firmly into the category of outright incensed. Safe though they may be, she is caught, and Éponine doesn't much like keeping. A pirate/seafaring AU. Éponine/Enjolras, Éponine/Cosette friendship, Éponine/Grantaire friendship, some Marius/Cosette.
1. An Interruption

She has found no real fault to the girl, and Éponine is puzzled. As Marius' bride-to-be, she should loathe the pretty thing, hate every inch of her, reject her company and wither her with biting retorts, yet even now, Cosette is running a brush through the tangles in her dark hair, as gentle and companionable as if they'd run the streets together.  
_More_ _so_, _maybe_, she thinks, recalling those she once shared 'home' with.

"Oh, Éponine," she says, her voice a sigh. "You wouldn't have so much trouble with this if you wouldn't push down your pretty hair beneath a hat." She uses her fingers to loose a particularly nasty snarl, and Éponine clenches her fingers tighter on her knees, scrunching the fabric. "I wish you would only drop this disguise."

"Can't," she answers shortly. _Don't like to be cooped up, a pretty bird in chains. Would rather work to aching, blistering, and have the sky above_.

("Eunuch," she'd said dryly, by way of explanation when they protested plans to have this ragamuffin boy wait on the lady.  
With all the grime and dirtying her skin and the almost feral way she clung to the shadows as she walked, they took her for something foreign. Taken aback as they were, and as the lady herself gave no protest, only a small, demure smile of assent, they let it be. She could say later this particular explanation was to dispense with any need of deepening her voice, which is true, but she revels in the winces when she says it.)

Two weeks at sea and the girl can catch the broadest of meanings in the word. Éponine is secretly the smallest bit glad, though she wonders if Cosette would take such patience to catch the tones that mark when she is concise for anger or just for lack of interest in elaborating if they hadn't been keeping such close quarters.  
She doesn't much like to think about it.

Cosette sets the brush aside, and Éponine looks up at the vanity for the first time since being urged into the seat.

She is a joke. Her hair is still dirty despite the brushing, and hangs thick. Her skin is mottled from patches of dry muck and uneven exposure to the sun. Clean water is not to go to the poor working boy for washing, and Cosette's efforts could not get Éponine, not to be indebted, to do much more than scrub the worst of it from her face and fingers. Her clothes are hers, mere rags bolstered with patches galore, but to see herself now reflected in the mirror against a background of strongly made furniture and lush bedding is a painful highlight.

Cosette leans forward, murmuring into her ear with a smile. "There, you see? You look lovely."  
Éponine's fingers skitter on her legs and she nods mutely, unwilling to argue.

And it will not last long. Soon she must report to the deck, stand staunch in the blazing sun. For now, she lets Cosette fuss over her, trying not to wince when Cosette learns Éponine has no dress suitable for the wedding, listens to the muse over whether there will be any tailors who work in suitable colors soon enough. When Éponine thinks she can take no more talk of wedding preparations, she stands, thinking to report in early – sweating at tasks would be preferable to this heartache. But…

She realizes, hand against the wood, that she cannot hear the first mate's rough laughter, cannot hear crewmates trudging up above, cannot hear – much of anything, really. Éponine pauses at the door, nonplussed – and then there is noise.

Shouts and shots ring out. A dull burst of cannon fire and the ship rocks, the vanity tipping and shattering the smooth mirror.

Cosette moves when she hears the clattering of quick-moving feet just outside; Éponine is in motion the second she notes the cloying silence.

She gathers her hair up by scraping her fingers roughly against her scalp, twisting until it hurts and shoving the mess under the fallen cap she snatches from the floor. Preserving the disguise is farther from her mind than how difficult she must make it to catch her, _blend back into the shadows and keep grasping hands at bay_. She spies a displaced handkerchief – the marks remaining from where it bore the letters 'E.F.' still visible in the corner where 'E.P.' is stitched, still sending a twitch of bitterness to her core with thoughts of how that could have been hers even after the hundredth time of seeing it – and uses it to palm a large shard, taking care not to press too firmly.

Not a moment too soon, she sees, as the door is flung open when she is still crouched. She is given her chance to straighten when the man in the doorway stumbles to a stop, surprised either that the room is occupied, or that one of the occupants is a women dressed in finery, and she moves, knocking her knee into his stomach before he recovers. She raises the hand with the shard, _to wound but never kill, lines she would not, will not, cannot cross_ and he flings up a hand to protect himself.

She sweeps his feet from under him instead of striking, and he is off balance enough for his head to crack audibly against wood paneling as the sound of cannons make her heart pound and her pulse feel too fast in her veins.

The door's hinges creak loudly, too loudly, and Cosette comes to stand closer (brave or stupid, she's not sure), to clutch at her hand. Éponine jolts, thoughts fleeing, _unforgiving slick stones beneath her flying feet_ melting back into creaking wood lit by candles and sunlight seeping from the hatch above – sunlight. An out.

She shakes her head, and surveys. The man is now unconscious, shallow breaths moving his chest. A temporary fix. Éponine is, she remembers, the more experienced in these sort of matters than this high-born lady. She must not be nervous here.  
Still, Éponine lets the glass fall from her grasp and clatter to the floor. She cannot be set at ease with it.

She laces her fingers through Cosette's and _pulls Azelma from a job gone wrong_ tugs the lady out the door, down the hall, and up the steps. The ship shudders again as she pushes the hatch open mere inches and peers out, deeper vibrations beneath her feet. She dreads what she may see above, because if the cannons have hit true, they are taking on water, and will not last long.

An angel, she thinks at first glimpse of the figure that paces before the crew, lined up. An avenging angel, face harsh and beautiful, passionate and terrible.  
"We fight against your injustice!" He is proclaiming, stopping short in his path. The one before him cannot meet the intensity of his gaze, and lowers his head, and even hidden, Éponine shrinks back.  
"The chains forced upon you, the conditions you have suffered – we seek to right this. Any who would join us are welcome!" He continues, urging.  
Some faces are stone, resolute; they will stay in this sinking wreck in the king's name until the sea itself swallows them up.

Others are not so loyal. She doubts the ones stepping forward are truly swayed by the empty promises, and are more interested in saving their skins.

The man in red clasps the hand of one who accepts the offer and proclaims him brother, sufferer to the cause.  
'_Good luck,_' she thinks with a barely restrained snort. She's chased the man from Cosette's trunks before, though he feigned innocence, and she never had enough proof to raise suspicions against him.  
"They're recruiting," she passes back lowly, turning back when Cosette nods in grim acceptance.

Her eyes pull away from the speaker with difficult, look beyond – and her heart sinks.

Those who whisper behind clotheslines and in alleyways have taken to calling the great ship the _Barricade_. In all the battles she has seen – and she has seen many – the ship has not sunk. _How_, exactly is unknown, though some may silently wonder if rations of gin haven't been the cause. Unwillingness to speak out about the king's men led to the term, and rumors pass that the ship can stand against any weapon.

Rumors abound, also, about the crew that populates, and she curses the painful weaknesses that bade her follow after Marius' every wish.

But she has little time to think of this, as she finds herself hauled up into the air by her collar. She is skin and bones still, though the mortification she might feel at the proof of this is lessened under her panic.  
A temporary fix, she'd thought, but not so temporary as this; no longer slumped against the wall, the man who'd appeared in the doorway is dragging open the hatch and taking the both of them with him. She struggles, but it is weak. This is not her familiar Paris; she has no place to hide here, even if she could wriggle free, and she has no way to fight.

He's got Cosette, too, dragging her along by the arm. It gives Éponine a brief flash of pride among the dread to be thought of as a threat even as she is flung to the deck.

Dimly, she hears snippets of conversation – '_the baron's intended?_' and '_must be her'_ – but she stays crouched where she lands, unmoving until a pair of boots enter her line of vision. She raises her head cautiously, and her eyes meet with those of the man who speaks with fire in his voice.

He offers her the barest smile.

"You are not one of them." He says. He gesturing to where panicked Cosette and the Captain in his borrowed airs stand. Éponine realizes with a dull jolt that she is being spoken to directly. "You have suffered under them. We would heal you, if you would let us." The Apollo, the angel, extends his hand, strength in red cloth and golden curls. "Would you stand by us?"

She hesitates, thinks of detainment in the cold and damp spaces if she refuses, thinks of meals skipped on _accident_ to teach lessons, thinks of a return to Éponine-the-gamin – and how much worse it could be if they found her as Éponine-the-gamine instead – kept in darkness when she knows there is the bright of sunlight just out of reach. Her hand twitches at its protective stance by her throat, fingers relaxing.

And she thinks of Cosette, who is marrying the man she loves, who condemns her to misery and closes the door to the antidote, to her better life, who had to cover her mouth to hide giggles and when Éponine mocked the Captain's pompous airs and read aloud tales of valor and adventure by candlelight _just_ loud enough for her to hear, even if she denied it, and decides.

She owes them nothing; she bears them no debt; _will not be a pretty bird in your chains you call honor_ but she is good at deception, she can be the image of ally to both – would not Marius weep to lose his love?  
And Éponine is selfish, at heart. She knows it.

She places her hand against his, calluses to smooth skin. "Yes," she answers, and stands tall.

* * *

A/N: I have never, ever written for Les Mis before and I have only a basic idea of where this is going and, suffice it to say, I am hesitant about this! However, my sister has agreed to be my beta reader, and I'm thrilled she's getting into this and the pairing, so I am nervously going ahead with it!


	2. Of Words and Words

The ship is a sight to behold.

From a distance, it was intimidating, sleek and perfect.  
Up close, the illusion of the unmarred ship is shattered; even for the short time she was above, she could spot damage, battle scars patched over and strengthened, but she knows from experience to find the second more impressive.

Her quarters, temporary or otherwise, are located on the middle deck. This is where she has been led, with instructions to 'make herself at home' and left alone.

This is so slight a change to basic routine that, barring the difference in scenery, she could _almost_ not notice it – or, she wouldn't if she had been anyone else. After all, Éponine Thénardier did not get this far in life by being oblivious.

She's barely spoken with _anyone_ beyond quiet affirmations and answers to simple questions – she has given them 'Jondrette' to call her, still fully aware of the impression 'Thénardier' gives to those who were aware of her family's actions in Paris – and with any luck, they've have picked up on how little she wants that to change.

She thinks them idiots, to be sure – who leaves a gamin unguarded when there are valuables about? And there are valuables abounding, now, plundered from _poor Marius_'s coffers, some stolen right from Cosette's room – but then, naïve though they may be, she cannot assume they will be fully unobservant.

And though a cap pulled low over her head and loose clothing might be enough to fool the eye, her voice is not _quite_ so easy.

Convincing a handful of university students, as they are said to be, will not be as easy as tricking an entire ship of apathetic sailors. At least on the _Cyclamen_ she had the advantage of rotating shifts, she thinks sourly. She never spent too much idle time in the presence of any one person, save Cosette.

And Cosette now is… elsewhere. She did not protest when Cosette was pulled away, didn't question where they would take her. Whether Cosette understood any of her intentions, Éponine isn't sure, but she certainly wasn't going to risk cluing her in then.

Still, she did note that they did not seem to be particularly rough with Cosette, guiding the girl more than forcing her along, but though Éponine may have her theories, her half-entertained threads of possibilities, it's hard to know exactly why that is.

No, Éponine has spent most of her time saving her _own_ skin.

She can't say she's exactly pleased to be able to mimic a gamin again, especially seeing as she sounds more like Gavroche than a woman of nearly twenty, but it's a start.

But then, there's the matter of how she's going to get _back_, and whether she should, or even can, ingratiate herself to them; _how_ to do that is a mystery, even if –

A knock sounds through her thoughts. Her first instinct – to react with irritation – she swallows back.

She does not know whether she is expected to call out or stay silent, to open the door or to wait, but it appears she doesn't need to trouble with this; the door opens anyway

The man who appears, as curly-haired as her recruiter, but in darker hues, slips in and stands, arms folded.

He regards her silently through narrowed eyes, looking amused for no good reason she can tell, until he speaks up suddenly. "Grantaire."  
Her brow furrows in confusion she cannot hide. "What?"  
"Thought you'd want to know the name of the man you assaulted," he says dryly.  
"Oh." She gets the distinct feeling that she is supposed to apologize here. "You nearly broke in the door."  
His lips twist up wryly at that. "I did, at that." And, strangely, that seems to be enough on the subject. "Is there a name to put to _you_, beyond Jondrette?"

She's thought this one over. "Julien."  
He lifts an eyebrow, and she bites the inside of hr mouth to keep from scowling.  
"My parents liked old romantic stories," she adds by way of explanation. Which is true. She isn't even changing the origin – all she's doing is shaking off the name of the wife to assume the name of the man. A variation, anyway. She's been told the tales long enough that the names are familiar to her, but she doubts something so obviously Roman – or would that be called Latin? – would go without attracting even the slightest bit of suspicion.  
Or interest, perhaps. That would be worse.

"Anyway…" he shakes his head. "Joly wants to know if you're hungry. You're to come to the galley if you are. And," he adds, when she's twisting her lips to protest, "that you're to come even if you're not."  
She lifts skinny shoulders and mutters.  
He's got an easy way of speaking, and she is less bothered when he asks, "do you have any questions? All this must seem strange."

'_This is beyond strange_,' she wants to say. '_There's no way you can trust me, and you'd have to be completely addled not to notice that I don't trust you_' or '_Why would you bother with any of this?'_ or '_How many of the stories are true?_' or '_How do I know what to think of this_?' or '_What_ _are_ _you_ doing?_ Are you 'heroes' __all _there_?_'

And, from that part that still believes in the fairy tails with gilded letters she used to so covet, buried beneath years of cynicism and _life_, sparked into sudden existence by the absolute _absurdity_ of it all, '_are you _really_ heroes? Do you really want to _save_ us?_'

"No," she says.

* * *

She's got her legs folded under her, sopping up the remains of her lunch with bread crust and shoving this into her mouth as if she is starving.  
(With the rations on the _Cyclamen_ as they were, she was getting by better than she would have on most days. She's going soft.)

It's not great, but it's not terrible, either, and she isn't one to refuse a meal. Grantaire had murmured to her that Joly was a doctor, not a chef, and they were hoping for someone more experienced on the next raid, for all their sakes.

Joly has given her strange looks through this, which tapered off when he began conversing with another, whose name is not known to her, and grows steadily more agitated.  
She's listening while appearing ignorant, catching bits and pieces here and there. Now, it's, "yes, I know, but she just won't – well, what am _I_ supposed to do?"

The 'baron's betrothed' is the current subject of interest.

She slides the plate back and slips from the stool, walking closer cautiously and speaking up before  
"I'll do it," she volunteers, quiet and hunched.

The two exchange glances, and she pushes ahead. "I served the lady, back." She jerks her shoulder to punctuate this. "She'll accept it from me."

She does not want undue attention, she must learn to slip away and out of notice, she must last here long enough to see shore – but she must also see Marius' grin, and she cannot see that if the little idiot lets herself starve.

And so she finds herself on her way.

(She swipes another roll as she goes, out of habit.)

* * *

The brig doesn't look like anything she'd expected.

There's a bench, where Cosette waits – languishes, really – a gothic heroine enduring persecution, mussed hair falling so as to frame her face, and pretty as poetry. Besides this, the room is bare, but it's not damp. It's not even _dark_.

Still, Éponine's lips quirk up at the sight of the girl still dressed in her elaborate finery, sitting where the boards have warped in so poorly-kept a place as this, amused by the contrast. Cosette looks up then, and smiles at this evident display of amiability.

"Éponine," she whispers. There is relief evident in her watery smile, relief that dims when Éponine shakes her head.  
"Julien, for now."

Éponine sets down the trey, and settles on the floor beside Cosette.

"You should eat," she says after a moment.  
"I didn't think it would be safe."  
Éponine snorts. _Little bourgeois girl thinks she knows this, thinks she's wise to the ways of people like this – like me_."They won't poison you. If they wanted to kill you, they'd just shove you off and let you drown." She watches as alarm grows in Cosette's eyes, and adds, "an' they'd have done it already."  
She leans her head against the wall and closes her eyes. "Eat," she urges again.

She hears the quiet clink of silverware and smiles slightly, one of her intended tasks finished. She only has to wait for Cosette's curiosity to present itself and she'll be on her way to having them both over.

"How do you know?" And there it is.  
"You know the stories? Les Amis de l'ABC? That's them out there. They think me a… friend."  
The movement stills. "They–?"  
Éponine nods, uncaring of whether the girl is watching. "Yeah. Them. I recognize the flag." _And the ship, and the speeches_, she adds silently.  
The sound of movements resumes.

"So I think," Éponine says slowly, giving voice to the thoughts that have tumbled about fitfully in her head, "they won't hurt you. Not sayin' you should trust them or anything, but it's not their style. They'll hold you to ransom, likely." Éponine huffs out a breath. "There's a bit of trouble if they ask for something else, for support, or things like that, but he'll pay whatever they ask to get you back."  
"Do you really think so?"  
She cracks open her eyes and shoots the girl a sidelong look. Cosette is all dewy hope and trepidation, and she knows she could crush that entirely. For whatever reason, Cosette has _listened_ to her. There's no telling what kind of damage Éponine could inflict here with words alone.

"Yes," she responds evenly, the pause barely noticeable. "For you, he would bring himself to ruin."

* * *

A/N: I am so very, very nervous about writing dialogue and screwing up characterization, which I hope I haven't done in this chapter. I tried to do research on each of the Les Amis and, while I did learn a bit more, I'm still fairly shaky when it comes to writing them. However, as I said, I'm forging ahead despite my many, many reservations. It _does_ mean that I will _gladly_ accept any sort of criticism, especially when it comes to characterization. Honestly, I can take wounded pride if it means my writing improves.  
"Julien" is the… more French-sounding version of Julius, the husband of Epponina, who Éponine was likely named for.  
I'm thinking the ship is something like the Man-o-War, which could carry around 190, for the typical pirate ship look – and, of the usual types, the one that seemed most intimidating.  
Also: you are all lovely, and I must thank you profusely for your interest in my poor attempts.


	3. And thus, she burns

Her nerves are on fire.

Éponine had not meant to get into this, any of this, but when it was offered, how could she refuse? Allowing herself to be thrust into the center of attention is the lesser evil compared to drawing suspicions.

She'd asked why she hadn't needed to _do_ anything, that's what caused the trouble. All she'd done was shrink their rations and take up space, and maybe, _maybe,_ saved a bit of time by talking to Cosette, and yet no one had come to give her a task or a job or a post or – _anything_. Grantaire was the one she'd asked, Grantaire who at least seemed relaxed and answered her with sarcasm and levity, even if he _did_ smell a bit like stale alcohol.

He, arms folded over the chair placed be her door (seems there is to be _some_ effort of guarding her, so perhaps they have a modicum of sense in them after all), lazily flicked a hand and said that it would be inhospitable to _make_ her do anything, according to 'the captain.' He made a show of emphasizing the title, and this, unfortunately, put her at ease enough to ask further probing questions about this 'enigmatic leader,' asked how that could be, how he could possibly think that, until suddenly Éponine found she had asked too much.

He'd tilted his head back against the wall and looked at her through angled eyes and asked if she wouldn't want to see for herself with a faint smile playing on his lips. Enjolras, he called the man, putting a name to the face at last.  
She tensed up and gave a jerk of her shoulders – how odd would that seem to decline after so many questions? – but apparently that was good enough for him, and he suggested coming with him to a meeting of some sorts in the morning.

And there, it was set.

Much of that night was spent dreading the day to come.

She needed solid ground beneath her, needed the reassurance of stone, but in its absence, she would not seek solace from cushions that gave way beneath her. Eventually, she pulled off the roughest sheet and twisted it up with her coat, curling up with it in the corner.

Éponine is used to sleepless nights, and woke hours before the knock came.

* * *

**Quietly, he murmurs that she's in luck, that he is in glorious form today, despite the fact that they seem to be debating some aspect of the map spread out across the table or appear to have been _meaning_ to, anyway.**

Digression or no, the man – Enjolras, he'd said – is powerful. She cannot hear what he speaks of, and the planning dissolves as Graintaire strolls closer, and is chided for being late, but the way it is spoken does nothing to calm her thrumming pulse. She could be found out in an instant if he speaks half this well with her.

When the planning turns to chattering and they have broken apart, Grantaire nudges her closer with his elbow, hissing "go on!"

She scowls as she stumbles, just imagining the smirk he bears, but shuffles nearer.

Up close, the sternness of his stance bleeds away to details. The curls provide a contrast, falling softly over sharp features; even when he is not speaking, he is breathtaking.

She swallows a lump of bitter laughter; with the way he only looks up from the maps for a moment, just long enough to acknowledge her with a nod, her worries of being too notice appear to have been useless.

'_Just get this over with_,' she thinks. '_Get this over with and find something to do and hide yourself away, and you might make it yet._'

She does not know if she is expected to speak, or if he is, or what she would say to excuse herself, or what she would ask, but her curiosity gets the better of her, in the worst of ways – a blurted "You wish to kill the king?" along with a wince.

He spares her more than a passing glance now, eyebrows raised. She clamps her teeth down firmly on her tongue as she curses herself.  
And then she matches him in surprise, though hers comes as he not only answers, but shakes his head. "No," he says. "We wish to destroy the entire institution of the monarchy in order to establish a less corrupt system. The king is a man, nothing more. If he can be reasoned with, so much the better."

Her narrowed eyes give him prompting enough to elaborate, setting his hands in front of him as he continues. "On a large scale, we hope to provoke a full-scale reformation. With violence," he says, voice soft and yet carrying, "if necessary, but the people are important here. They will fight for what they believe right; we must show them how they have been used."

"But pretty words have not been enough to bring you your change, or to persuade for a full crew." She regrets the words as soon as they leave her mouth.

Enjolras shoots her a sidelong glance, and his answer comes slow. "No." He pushes away from the table and looks at her intently, curiosity and something _else_ burning in his gaze. He folds his arms before he speaks, and the image he makes is all sharp angles and crisp, quiet strength.  
He reminds her of a statue she caught a glimpse of through a gate, once, in front of one of those houses too big to take in all at once, in a district stone with fountains never filled with coins because the people who live around are too serious to bother with wishes anymore.

His words are sharp, even if the way he says them is made to seem not. "You know why?"

She's no qualms to upturning a monarchy, a '_corrupt system_,' but she's not giving up her life for it; so of course she does. _Because they are too prideful, too self-serving; __because __they will not come to the aid of someone in need, they will act only for their own sakes; __because __they will not accept charity, will not accept pity;__ because__ they are so set against anything that could hurt them that they will not accept the idea that someone like you wishes to 'fix' them; __because __they will not accept needing fixing._

_Because you do not realize what your revolution will do to them._

_Because you assume your 'oppressed people' ache for someone to lead them to a better life, but how could someone like you ever understand the struggle to survive, just to__ see__ the next day? _

_Because next to you and your savage eyes and shining ideals, I feel dark and dirty and want to crawl back into the shadows __until I__ forget the brightness of the sun __in your voice__, and how could anyone born to the streets ever bear it?_

She swallows thickly, and draws in a halting breath.

_Because you are __aflame__, and you do not care who you burn._

"…no. Just… observing."

But… Enjolras is watching her still, markedly enough that she must fight not to squirm away. "Anything," he urges softly, and she curses herself once more. Words have not been hers to command since they took her books.  
"Not everyone is as… eager for revolution as you, Monsieur," she says carefully, watching for his reaction.

His eyes seem to light up, and the confident air is reclaimed. "Perhaps not everyone is prepared, but once they see we fight for them, we will gain their support; the people of France cannot be kept in chains forever—"

She closes her eyes, and nearly sags in relief.

The speech seems eager to be spoken, bursting as it is from his lips; she just happened to be the one to trigger the outburst, and now she need only wait it out.

As much as she wants to scoff at his words, dismiss them, there is some part of her that listens closely and wonders.

The dreaming child that has slept within her for so many years lifts its head and begins to blink awake.

* * *

A/N: I do not know where, _exactly_, I am going with this. So… basically, if there's anything you'd like to see, tell me, and it might appear in a chapter.

I've made some changes to the first and second chapters, and hopefully that made it flow a little better.

All of you? Are perfect. This is fact.

(Additionally, I apologize for the abruptness of the end, but I was sick of staring at the same parts over and over again and wondering if I'd written them well enough.

I also apologize for all dialogue I write, ever.)


	4. A Familiar Letter

Éponine might have gotten along perfectly well and left-alone if she hadn't let herself become distracted.

Sorting through crates and trunks in the hold is less tedious than keeping watch, and, she imagines, an easier task than dragging the crates down in the first place.

The assignment is not much, for all the wheedling it took – having to persuade someone that she _wanted_ to work is a new experience – but she could not bear sitting idle.  
However, rendezvous with the _Cyclamen_ apparently having occurred slightly earlier than expected, they have the remains from the previous ship to go through.

She wonders how often such raids occur, and how it is they pick their targets.

In any case, she is to sort through the pilfered chests for anything useful or valuable,

There is another, down below, where luggage and boxes of all sizes litter the floor, a soft-spoken man with a sort of contemplative air about him who introduces himself as Jean Prouvaire. Éponine's reference to herself as simply 'Jondrette' conveys the sense that she does not wish to talk, thankfully, and he speaks little, merely refers her to the particular crates likely to contain something useful.

And so she sets to work.

The contents are largely unremarkable, composed of clothes, of papers, and of standard traveling fare, although the third that she opens is, inexplicably enough, composed entirely of bars of soap. The heavy scent of tallow from the thick yellowy blocks makes her gag, and she closes it up quickly to move on to the next.

The most she manages to find that looks remotely useful is a little lockbox of gunpowder.

At least, she _thinks_ it's gunpowder.

When she gets to boxes plundered from the _Cyclamen_, Éponine's mouth draws down. Giving these… Amis (she settles on the word lightly, and regards it with a measure of interest; students they may have been, once, and though now her capturers by definition, she cannot quite reconcile the word with them) that which belongs to Marius does not sit right with her. Sifting through, she recognizes more than one dress belonging to Cosette. It fills her with a strange feeling – not quite guilt, and not quite pity, all wriggling in an uncomfortable tangle in her stomach.  
She considers, briefly, bringing something to Cosette, some dress, or necklace, more likely. The thought comes as she slides a scarf around in her hands, feeling it slide smoothly over her knuckles and between her fingers. It could be comforting.  
But she shrugs this off soon. Though Éponine may wonder at the trinkets, Cosette, even draped in them, seems less taken in by the trinkets – and it still would seem strange to the Amis.  
For the sake of the disguise, she removes the most ornate jewelry, but for obligation to Marius, she leaves that which she knows Cosette is fond of.

Because of this, she is already in the beginning of a foul mood, and so does not notice the contents of the next until her fingers brush against something hard and she jolts from her reverie.

She probes until she finds an edge, tugs it loose – and finds a book, bound in green. She runs a finger down the spine before opening it. The lettering is not quite new, and a few of the pages are crumpled, but the words are shorter than those of others, and she can make out one or two.  
Now curious, she reaches in again, repeats the process, and is rewarded once more. This one is the color of rust, handwritten, looking old and formal.

Éponine sets both of these books in her lap, cradling them, and peers a little closer.

Though it does indeed bear clothes, now long wrinkled, it is not filled as fully as she had thought. In the light afforded her here, she can make out torn and folded papers scattered throughout.

She plucks out one and smoothes it, squinting to see the lettering.

She knows Marius' writing. She has been his messenger for years, sometimes watching as he finished the letters he would then send off with her. She knows the way it looks, neat and smooth at first, and tnarrowing at the edges of lines as if in a rush.

This is written in the same style.

Her heart beats faster as her fingers clutch at the paper. She pulls another, then, another, then another, all in the same style.

Slowly, carefully, she traces the name at the end with a ragged nail, curling over the letters. _Marius_.

Though she does not know it, her face softens, looking more relaxed than it has been in a week.

So it is, thus occupied, that Éponine is not even halfway finished when voices start up. "I thought you'd be up there until noon, at least."

She clutches tighter at the startle, and her fingers nearly rip through. She shoves them hastily into pockets of her coat, and they crinkle terribly. Despite the noise, the voices continue.

"So did I. Seems they prefer Bossuet to the task, now."  
"Oh, you didn't." This is the voice of… of… Jean, she remembers. The other is familiar, but she cannot fully place it. She stands slowly, clutching the books and the lockbox to her, and chances a look towards the voices. The person standing on the stairs is the same she saw talking to Joly, before, though he now speaks with Jean.  
The man on the stairs laughs, grinning brightly as he holds up hands in deference. "Only talked! Even _that's_ too much."  
"How is he now?" She inches closer to the pair, along the wall. Perhaps, if she is quick, she can give the box to someone and be off.  
"His arm is bound about as well as it can be, now. Joly says it was quite a fall and he's lucky it wasn't worse, but Bossuet swears his luck is getting worse with a woman aboard."  
This is met with a laugh, "it isn't possible." She inches closer – and therein lies her mistake.  
"And you, Jondrette? What of your luck?"

Éponine had certainly not anticipated being addressed, yet, she does not freeze in place. The habit dissipated once she learned that it rarely worked, and more often the target of suspicions. Instead, she shifts the contents of the current trunk – clothes now fallen into disarray – slowly, her mind working.

"No luck, M'sieur," she mutters, feeling small.

"None at all?" The man on the stairs does not appear to be malicious in his questioning, but she wishes he would stop. "Come to think of it, we know so little about you. Your luck may be the least of our worries."

She shakes her head vehemently. "I've none, and there's not much to tell."

"No? What do you do?"  
Her brow furrows. _Do_?  
"Your trade, I mean," he clarifies.  
"Whatever pays." She tightens her hold and says, pointedly, "whatever needs doing." To punctuate, she attempts to hand the lockbox to Jean – assuming his proximity made him the default recipient – fumbling minutely in her haste.

She's like to take the books and go, but his eyes are still on her, so she, reluctantly, thrusts the green-bound book towards him. "What's this about?" 'What does this say' is too much – betrays too much ignorance.

He takes it from her, turns it over with a small frown, flips it open. "Poetry," he says, looking up, and it seems as though he would have said more, but she pushes the other one at him, asks the same. He takes longer to sift through this one, nodding slowly at the pages. "Ah – plans," he answers, after an extended silence. "Logs and navigation marks, and…" He is looking the pages over still, and she does not think she will get any more of an answer from him.

She takes a step back, and pauses. "If you don't need the – the poetry." She is clumsy and inelegant in her words but she reaches anyway. "Can I have it?"

He nods again and shifts the logbook to one hand to hold the other out.

She pushes past the other and must force herself not to run up the stairs.

* * *

"—Ain't supposed to be talking, is she?" She juts out a skinny hip as she says this. She thought there'd be some resistance to it – not yet sure why she's doing this herself – so she's got retorts on her tongue. "This'll keep her quiet, won't it?"

The man before her looks both amused and bemused. He shrugs with his good shoulder, which seems answer enough. He hadn't really been arguing anyway, and Éponine slides into the room.

Cosette's hair is in disarray, and she is sitting with her legs folded up beneath her. Éponine cannot suppress a laugh at finding the girl in so unladylike a pose, which makes Cosette take note. "É – Jondrette," she greets faintly.

Éponine hands off the book before speaking. "Here. Dunno what it says," she mutters, "but it's not as bad as the textbooks, and it's _something_."

Cosette's eyes light up, but a frown tugs at her mouth as Éponine begins to back away.

Éponine glances back, unsure if the man on watch could hear, or if he would even care. "Look," she hisses softly, "just don't tell them anything – they could use. And I'll… be back."

And if anyone asked her, Éponine would blame the mouthed 'later' on the lingering flicker of guilt.

* * *

A/N: I think I'm sleep deprived and my beta is not available so I don't know it this is great or terrible but I hope you hate this less than I do.


	5. Plans Made and Unmade

They give her watch duty.

It's strange how quickly this crew seems to accept her. True, she has not given them any reason to distrust her, but she has not proven her loyalty, either.

Cosette is more than halfway through the book of poems, and eager to discuss; from the time Éponine sits just outside the door, Cosette does not turn a single page.

The discussion of poetry. Absurd seeming, perhaps, but a valid excuse should any come by and hear the low murmur of words between a gamin and a lady of the bourgeoisie. Impersonal, too – she risks little in the pretense of weighing one poet's rhythms against another's.

This is how she learns that the man she passed on the stairs was likely the one named Courfeyrac. Cosette tells her that he had been a willing conversational partner for a short time, which evidently displeased the captain, who was watchful against any information given to the lady. "He didn't tell me much, but that was the end of that," Cosette sighs.

She is interested to hear of the others, one of the few subjects in which Éponine can best her, and especially in the 'passionate leader' – Cosette's words – of the band.

("I see most've 'em around," Éponine remarks. "Can't tell _what_ some are up to. Doesn't always seem the same, either."  
"They are too young and too pleased," Cosette lilts, "they don't seem to act very much like pirates."  
"More like kids than sailors," Éponine scoffs, and this gets her a laugh.)

Cosette understands the need for camaraderie with the Amis; she understands the need to seem distanced from herself; she even understands why Éponine dresses herself as she does.  
But she does not understand the desire Éponine expresses to work.

Éponine hears this with a measure of frustration, any yet she… _wants_ to explain, though she cannot say exactly why.  
Pity is a factor, she supposes, and so she speaks. "You have your upbringing, mam'selle, and pretty speech and looks, but I have pride – " _and it's all I've got_. "Got nothing if I don't work for it."

"You've got more than that," is the quiet response.  
"That's… kind of you to say," Éponine mutters, because this lady cannot understand, but she does not wish to argue.

So she begins the outlines of a plan, instead; a much more pleasant prospect.

The basics are simple – to steal ashore when they dock, on a night when Éponine has the watch.

Cosette, although eager to be reunited, is wary of the dangers, and made hesitant by the simplicity. So she is hesitant – but less so when Éponine does not wave away her concerns, but gives them answers instead: that they _will_ dock soon, owing to how close the _Cyclamen_ had come to home already; that they will _need_ to dock, based on how few supplies Éponine spotted below. As for how she knows that they will give her watch duty then, Éponine is almost grinning as she explains that it's as simple as ensuring Cossette creates troubles for anyone but Éponine.

Éponine is detailing potential routes to Paris depending on where they stop, when she cuts off.

"_Mon dogue, ma dague, et ma digue_," she mutters. Cosette may be unfamiliar with the phrase in the usual context, but through repeated use, she seems to have figured out that Éponine has heard footsteps nearby.

Éponine settles her back more fully against the wall, and waits.

She is not disappointed – but she _is_ surprised. Down the steps comes the captain himself, in strides quick enough that she only has time to catch the nod he gives her before passing, and then he is closing the door quietly behind him.

To an onlooker, Éponine is the essence of nonchalance. Her back is resting against wood paneled walls, her arms are folded lazily, and her eyes slowly look about the hall, but her fingers clutch too tightly at her arms, until the grip is painful. What she hears brings her no comfort.

'Pontmercy' is the first she hears, and what follows is no better.  
A letter. He wants Cosette to write a letter. A letter explaining the situation and listing demands, written in her hand as proof of her well-being.

_No…  
_She is struck by confused terror, cold fingers tracing lazily up her spine until she is awash in with the sense that what little she controlled.

If they are waiting for a ransom, they will not be lax in their rounds. They cannot be. And she will not be able to slip away if they are all waiting for something like that – it would never work.

She shakes herself back into false boredom when the door creaks open.

Enjolras nods to her, a book bound in dull red held loosely in one hand. He moves as though to continue on, but pauses.

He regards her intently before speaking, and Éponine digs her fingers into the wood of the chair. "You found this, didn't you?" He doesn't need to gesture for her to know what he refers to, and she bobs her head weakly. "Good work." A small smile appears on his face.  
Éponine gets the feeling he does not often give out praise, and her stomach sinks. Would that she had not. "Seems a Monsieur Gillenormand was kind enough to detail the last of the information we needed."

And then he is off. Éponine lets her head fall against the wall again.

"…it's my fault," is what she says at last. "The book he found that in, I brought that, and it's my f—"  
"No." The response is spoken firmly, and Éponine stops short. "It is _not_ your fault," Cosette continues from within. "Not anyone's. And… they only want me to write a letter. We might alert Marius to how to find the ship, if we are careful."

Éponine wants to bite out a retort, shout that _no_, they cannot, _doesn't she realize how impossible it is, doesn't she know that no one ever comes?  
_But Cosette is hopeful, and Marius – Marius would be different, wouldn't he? Wouldn't he come, if he knew?  
And if she gains their trust – couldn't she lull them into security? Couldn't she make it easier?

She is Éponine Thénardier, and of course she can.

It's been… some time since she's worked on a scheme with someone else, and longer since her safety hinged on it's success.

She can't say she missed it.

* * *

A/N: 'Mon dogue, ma dague et ma digue': 'my dog, my knife, and my wife.' "The ambiguous phrase by means of which Montparnasse had warned Gavroche of the presence of the policeman, contained no other talisman than the assonance dig repeated five or six times in different forms. This syllable, dig, uttered alone or artistically mingled with the words of a phrase, means: 'Take care, we can no longer talk freely.'"  
As always, thank you so, so much to everyone for the reviews. I'll be making a concentrated effort to be replying more, and I apologize for not having done so sooner.  
(And this _is_ an É/E fic, I _swear. _Enjolras will have more of an appearance soon…!)


	6. Quiet Talks

That night, she learns the identities of the rest of the Amis.

There is Bahorel, who laughs loudly and brashly and often; Feuilly, with eyes bright; Combeferre, who talks alike with all, even seeming to soften the marble man an instant when he makes a brief appearance.

Talk is easy, free, and happy; with plans in motion at last, everyone is in high spirits.

Éponine's answers are concise, when questions are posed to her, and she jerks her skinny shoulders in a shrug when they ask for her opinion on social matters, on the hierarchy, on informing the public.  
They manage to drag from her the names _Azelma_ and _Gavroche_. They are common names, and the telling builds their trust in her, but still she is made uneasy.

She eats some and pockets the rest – feeling that among these highborn, well-spoken men, her eating habits, would be coarse and common, even with all their talk of equality with the masses – and when they first show signs of wearying, she steals away.

But she cannot sleep.

She had though it was strange, before, that she should be placed in the room so close to the stairs. Should not the others – someone more important – be able to escape quicker, if needed? Now she gets it.

From here, she can hear the creaking of the ship and the whistling of the wind as if she stood in open air. It emphasizes her surroundings more than anything else has, and she is acutely aware of the way the ship sways with every groan.

She has traced over every letter of Marius' notes until she is sure she could map out the position of each flourish, even here in the dark – could mark out even the passage which brought her the most joy, if she wanted, some discourse on his studies and barely comprehensible but for mentions of Waterloo – but she cannot find comfort for it. Escaping into a world of her own is easier when the reminders of reality are less constant.

When she can be still no more, she rises, and slips up the steps as quietly as possible.

If she were a lady in a nightgown, she supposes she would look rather mournful. As it is, Éponine only looks small huddled in her coat. The wind worms into her clothes and makes them billow, then past them, as if she were bare. This, at least, is comforting in its familiarity.

She pads across the deck, tracing the lines of each board with her toes to determine her path, until she has reached the edge.

Éponine rests her hands on the railing and faces the darkness.

Now, she can hear the soft lapping of the waves as the ship bobs, and this softens the harsh noises at last. As her eyes adjust, she can make out the sails fluttering gently, and the bright red flag snapping and rippling up above.

Éponine leans, peering closer into the darkness.

Under bridges, she would dream of stumbling, tumbling, falling from the arches and drowning; the Seine a lady with hands like whispers, the only hands to ever reach willingly for her.

She told Marius, once, of this thought that would take her sometimes. She would not like to drown – the water would be too cold. He had frowned at that, and made her promise, swear never to let the water take her. He laid his hand on her shoulder and from his nearness, he brought warmth. The rivers seemed so much more like ice from that day onward.

But Marius is far from her now, and if she is honest, so are her chances for happiness.

She wonders if the waters would be as cold as the river who called to her with arms wide open, in the days before Marius and messages. She is far from home and farther from happiness; messages she may have now, but she does not have Marius, and now, she likely never will.

The waters look calm now, but she knows they are raging beneath, and would swallow her up if they got the chance.

The ship gives a quiver just then, and she lurches forward, A thought takes her, idle – _never wanted to die, exactly, just sometimes stopped wanting to live__, when hope was far away and gone_ – and Éponine, eye level with the churning ink, marvels at how easy it would now be to answer that call. Would she be mourned, if she fell?

"Do you often leave the safety of your warm bed to wander the night before a storm?"

She almost does pitch into the ocean with how she startles, and she only recovers enough to half turn.

The moonlight glints among his curls, silver mingling among the gold. It casts an almost regal air about him – the thought of his reaction to being told this would make her laugh at a different time – that lingers around his eyes and the set of him mouth, softer than earlier. Untroubled, she might guess.

'_I could ask you the same_,' threatens to slip from her lips, but she stills, the phrase stopped on her tongue.

If Éponine had the words, she would call him _ethereal_, as beautiful as an angel and capable of the same terrible coldness, but she has no such command.

She knows only that even removing the rich, red coat he normally wears does little to soften his image, and she is wary of sparking his wrath with too-bold words. (She thinks she sees why they called him a statue.)

She scuffs her bare foot against the wood and pinches her mouth together. "No."

To her surprise – and a touch of dismay – he comes to stand beside her. She cannot leave unless he allows it now.

"Normally," he responds, resting his arms on the railing a short distance from her, "neither do I."

Éponine doesn't question this, and asks, instead, "how do you know there's a storm tomorrow?"  
He shoots her a glance from the corner of his eye. "How long have you been out at sea?"  
"Two weeks," she says softly, "and four before." She would be more irked at not getting a straight answer if she had cared more about the answer.  
"Six weeks out…" he repeats, then, "and you are unused to it?"  
She hums an affirmation.  
"What brought you out here, then?" He motions to the vastness all around.  
"I… look after the lady. Or did. Nobles like to send along a, a –" She frowns as she fishes for the word. "…an escort. It pays." Unless it's a favor for someone so love struck he doesn't even look at her.  
Another question strikes her. She hesitates, but he _was_ the one to bring it up and – like it or not, she wants to know. "You won't hurt her, will you? Only, she's not a bad sort, exactly," she adds hastily.

He turns light eyes to her. "Do we seem the type to you?"

She knows the answer he'd like, but she knows, too, that shrugging it of won't quite work. They seem harmless, almost, when they laugh together, but there are stories she's heard – and she _is_ kept here. "I don't know much to say either way," she confesses.

He lifts an eyebrow, and her mouth turns down sharply. "Rest assured, murdering an innocent citizen of France is not at all what we want."  
"What will you do with her, then?"

If he is surprised at her words, he doesn't show it. "She will be returned safe and sound to Baron Pontmercy once he will pay a ransom –" (She winces at this) "– then comes the matter of distributing it where it is best."

"…why?"

He seems farther in thought now. "It's harder to get enough out directly, and this sends more of a message," he says, somewhat absently.  
"No, I mean…" She takes a deep breath, eyes resolutely fixed on some point in the distance. "Why do… _any_ of it? What does it matter, if it isn't your concern?"

She expects a speech. She expects anger. She expects him to see through her disguise as a sympathizer and out her right there. She expects – anything but for him to level his gaze at her with such an intensity she can't bear to hold it but cannot drop her eyes.

"Monsieur," he says, voice low and grave, "the suffering of the people is _always_ a matter of my concern."

Éponine is silent. That he believes in his words is obvious, but can she?

She nods her head slowly. "Thank you, Monsieur Enjolras. You've… given me much to think about. Now, it _is_ late, and I should… go."  
He nods, now thoroughly lost in thought.

Éponine turns back only once more, at the edge of the stairs.

He is a mournful figure there, and she wonders.

(She does sleep much more that night, but at least it is not because of the ship.)

* * *

A/N: HEY LOOK WHO'S IN THIS ONE

(falls to the floor and weeps because everything was going so well up until dialogue)


	7. Flynning

Enjolras was right.

The next day brings rain pelting to the deck in thick sheets, and skies that remind her of ashen Parisian streets.

Standing up above, Éponine scratches ragged nails across her face, cheekbone to jaw, and flicks out the dirt that gathers under them. The action makes her look striped with the contrast of dirt and marginally clean skin, until she does it again, and again, until what is left looks pink and nearly raw.

Normally, she'd shake her hair loose and scrub at her scalp and the ends of her hair until it would no longer fall thick and greasy against her skin, but even without this, she feels cleaner than she has in a while.

She enjoys the warm droplets, actually.

Acting as lookout – even if there is too much wind to safely ascend to the crow's nest – suits her just fine.

Until a hand on her shoulder has her turning to look into the face of Graintaire.

"I," he articulates, "have a headache, and do _not_ want to be up here." Understandable, given how much she saw him drink the night before. Her gaze is impassive, and the question is clear: '_What does this have to do with me_?'

He grins, and answers what is unspoken. "This has everything to do with you, Jondrette. Because, instead, _I_ am going to teach you to pull your weight around here. Come on." He steps away from the bow, only turning back when he notices her hesitate. "Do you really think we're going to sneak up on anybody in this weather?"  
What she _thinks_ is that she doesn't know how _any_ of this works, but she is also curious.

He speaks up anyway. "The answer to that is no. Come on," he repeats._ (_'_Was that what had been distracting him before?'_ she wonders idly as she steps away._ 'Whether or not the storm would get in the way of intercepting the other ship?_')

Even with the hatch closed, the steps are slick with rain, and she nearly slips as she follows him down.

The crates and boxes have been pushed to the sides, some stacked atop another and looking as though looking as they will topple at any moment, in order to clear away a space in the middle.

"Does – the captain know you're doing this?" she asks as she descends.

He tosses a look over his shoulder, reaching for something leaning against a wall, just out of her vision. "What he doesn't know won't hurt him."

Though she does doubt that, somewhat, seeing as he is now in possession of two _swords_.

Her tosses her one, and her fingers scrabble along the edge, nearly nicking herself trying to find purchase. "There's supposed to be another raid soon. Merchant ship. Best to know what to do." He fixes her with a smirk. "Though in all likelihood, you'll end up sitting this one out. Now, the key to learning how to sword fight is... balance."

She scrunches up her face and gives him a dirty look – what would he know about balance? – and begins to inspect hers. The blade is broader than she expected, and her hand fits easily around the curved handle. It's simple, and doesn't look like much, but –

Here, her line of thinking is cut off as Grantaire kicks at her right foot.

"Never step with your feet close to each other," he instructs as she stumbles. "Shoulder width apart." She scowls at him, but does as instructed. She can feel his amusement even without seeing it.

"Keep your breathing even. And hold out your sword. Like this." He demonstrates, and she follows after, receiving a nod. "Slide your feet when you can, and lift when you can't. Go."

Cautiously, Éponine takes a few steps, slowly so as not to wobble. It's strange to get used to such a manner of walking, but after a few tries, she thinks she's got the hang of it.

This is confirmed when Grantaire nods again. "Good. Keep your elbows bent in close. Try and match me."

He lifts his own and advances. She circles, as does he, and her lack of skill grows increasingly obvious, as does his possession of such skill.

She blocks the first with relative ease, but the second comes when she twists her wrist at an awkward angle, and the third taps her wrist as she fumbles.

He scoffs. "I'm not even trying to hit you, Jondrette."

She scowls, and redoubles her efforts.

But it's harder than it looks.

Grantaire's strikes are light at first, and then more forcefully. Never hard, but enough that her arm aches with every blow that she blocks.

Éponine is no weakling, though she has admittedly had little opportunity to develop real muscle in her emaciated state, a fact which has only begun to change in the amount of months she could count on one hand.

Even so, trying to keep her breathing steady, her footwork natural and even, her hand raised unfalteringly, begins to take its toll. And this does not go without notice.

"Stop."

She pauses, one foot half-raised.

"Take a moment to refocus." She presses her mouth together in a silent question. "We'll start again when you have."

She is hesitant, but he steps back, looking suddenly uninterested, and so she lowers her sword to its earlier position.

She closes her eyes and draws in a steady breath.

She focuses on the position of her feet and of the angle of her arm until the tremors subside, and there is nothing but her breathing, but this steadiness – and, suddenly, the flat of a blade smacking against her hand.

She yelps and jerks back, narrowly managing to avoid dropping the sword. When she recovers, Grantaire graces her with a lazy grin. "Remember not to be so relaxed you forget your surroundings," he reminds, smile wicked, and she starts to form a retort when he continues. "And try not to be so jumpy, _mademoiselle_."

Her heart stutters and her toes clench in her boots. He knows? He _knows_? She keeps her face as neutral as possible as she studies his, heart rate increasing by the second.

After a moment, she lets off, and lets her grip relax.

No. He does not know. The remark was designed to be a jibe, nothing more.

"Try again," he instructs, taking his place opposite her.

Still, she's jittery enough that his next few strikes hit low enough on the sword that her knuckles go white.

Training is cut short by a shout. "Grantaire! Captain wants to see you!"

"Tell him I'm busy!" He calls up with a half-smile, perhaps aware of her dual incredulity and amusement at the idea of telling the captain anything so informal.  
"He will not believe the deck needs any more swabbing in this rain!" roars Bahorel from above, which sends Grantaire and Éponine into heaving fits of laughter.

Graintaire gives her a mock bow. "Well then, I believe that will have to be the extent of your first lesson. Mustn't keep him waiting." And with that, he is off, whistling merrily. She thinks that this would infuriate the captain terribly, and then she thinks this must be the point.

By the end of it, she may not have full-mastery of the art, or have met his goals for her, but she has certainly mastered her goal – studying _him_.

He acts as he speaks – brashly, and with a bit of a swagger. His steps are a little wide, and he projects confidence to the point where scoring a hit against him might leave him more defenseless than normally.

If she can pretend not to have noticed this through enough lessons (and of course she can), she might be able to trounce him through improvement and the use of this knowledge.

And then she frowns, and shakes her head at herself. She's looking forward to another lesson? She's letting herself go soft.

* * *

A/N: Hey, guess who took the time to actually map out the main points of the next few chapters with sections specifically for the Enjonine scenes in each up to the thirteenth? (Spoilers: this gal!) You know what that means, beyond the fact that I will no longer have to spend half the day just trying to come up with the basis for the chapter? _Actual plot_. Which existed before, but more fluidly, whereas this chapter has _several_ plot-relevant bits. (Points if you can spot the plot relevant-scene inside the plot-relevant scene.)  
I think I might have to put 'Grantaire/Éponine friendship' in the summary, with how much I'm including him. I regret nothing. And, actually, I really like this chapter. …go me.


	8. Inclusion

She is talking to Cosette when it happens.

The girl is fascinated with the idea of sword fighting, going so far as to mimic the steps Éponine describes. Cosette finishes when the ship gives a tremendous heave and she stumbles, the hem of her dress ripping beneath her feet. Éponine frowns, and makes a note to request a change of clothes or the lady – something less elaborate than the dress she's been wearing for a week.

Éponine does not have long to think back to the contents of the crates to wonder what would be most suitable, because Courfeyrac pokes his head into the short hallway. "We're boarding," he says, sounding out of breath, and then he disappears again. That would explain the shouts from above.

'Do you have to go?' is what she expects from the girl within the brig. What she gets is, "go on, then."

Éponine pauses. "…what?"  
"It would build your cover, wouldn't it? And you said merchant ships carry no heavy arms – and, you want to go, don't you?"  
And she does. She's no yearning for danger, but to prove herself?

"Yeah," she says, and then she is shrugging her coat on more tightly, and stands.

"Be careful," comes the voice, softer now.

"…yeah. I will."

She darts away and down the hall, taking the steps two at a time – and grins at what she sees up above. Yes, she can definitely work with that.

She runs into Grantaire as she darts back, aiming for the stairs to further below. She misses him by inches, and he catches her shoulders to keep her from flying off.

"You're going out there?" A nod. "You aren't ready for that."

"There's not many out there, and they all look to be deckhands," she answers. "You do what you were aiming for, and I'll keep 'em busy."

And he grins. "Don't get stabbed."

They run off in opposite directions, and she scurries down the steps. The single lantern hung provides little illumination, but it's enough to spot where Grantaire had placed the swords earlier.

Up again she goes, through the hatch, and into the quiet air – or, mostly quiet, anyway.

The merchant ship is smaller, stouter. There are few bold colors save the flag which speaks of patria, snapping in the wind, but the amount of money poured into its construction is evident in every aspect, despite obvious efforts to hide it.

Surprisingly, those on deck aboard the merchant ship – weary and windswept, each of them – are _not_ furiously forcing their way into the bowels of the lower decks, where she can hear muffled voices and clattering which increases in volume the closer she creeps.

Only one of the four carries a sword, and one holds only a dagger – which could pose a threat to her if thrown, it's true, but the holder is a thin, nervous looking fellow, and he looks to have pilfered it from one of the unconscious men on the deck.

None bear guns.

These are, then, the stragglers, those who came up from below when they realized something was wrong – those who were already on deck when the boarding commenced are likely the ones currently knocked out – but were unable to stop the Amis from going below, where they are, she supposes, dealing with the rest of the merchants and crew.

The Amis would probably do just fine without her help. It's unlikely that these few deckhands are strong enough to break in the doors, or that hey possess the bravado to believe they could take on foes who outnumber them. Even her own sword could be enough to keep her safe, as they will be hesitant to face another experienced pirate, as they would suppose her to be.

She could sneak onboard, likely knock one of them unconscious and dart away before they were ever the wiser. There's hooks in place already, and boards enough that she would not fall.

Éponine creeps closer, over the boards and circling around to the back. It's a good angle, and she doubts that, experienced deckhands though they may or may not be, they would have any hope of running as fast as she, by necessity, can.

Instead, she whistles, loud and long.

She makes a show of leaning on the sword as each, in time, turns – let them think she's got the skill to use it.

"So you think they'd die for you?" she calls, tone conversational. She sees them exchange glances, and she jerks her thumb in the direction of the merchant ship's cabins. "Them in there. You think they'd care if you all got killed?"

They seem more surprised to be addressed without any apparent malice or ploy, and this, she thinks, is what allows her to go on.

"Lucky for you, either way," she continues, "you aren't going to die here. Not unless you try something stupid, but you know better, don't you? Won't get anything more than a bloody nose if you don't stick your neck out for 'em." Some of them cast nervous glances towards their fellow on the deck.

She gives them a moment to process this. "Of course, you'll be paid anyway, won't you? No fool in France would take them on if they didn't follow through."

She grins as this garners her a few slow nods. Ultimately, whether they follow her instructions at all, she'll have a modicum of success here. They're not breaking through the doors to make trouble for the Amis.

Who she is helping only because she can't guarantee this merchant ship would pass so near Paris. Of course.

Her voice hardens. "Because they wouldn't. If that were you in there and them out here? They'd throw down their weapons in an instant. What do you owe them?" The hand she flicks out sharply signifies it: _nothing_.

This is met by grumbles and murmurs of assent.

Éponine lets a slow smile curve her mouth. This speech-making is addicting. She can see why the marble man is so taken with it. '_I represent the whole world_,' she remembers. And even before this, she remembers perfecting the sound of a cough, stepping on wobbling legs towards some well-dressed dandy, '_please, sir, anything to spare for a poor lost girl?' _and scurrying back to her father in the shadows, turning over pockets of coins for a rough pat on the head.

And she _is_ her father's daughter. Even when she is telling truths, she weaves them together like lies. She can rouse them to anger, stir their distrust, but –

A shot goes off, and she does not jump, does not let even the smallest measure of panic shine through her face, because that would give it away. Confidence, confidence in all places, and she will make it through even when she has nothing. She tightens her grip, and that is all.

"That seems to be an end to it," she says, and she hopes they don't notice the tightness in her voice, "and wouldn't it be a shame to fight now? One side's won, clear as can be, and all that's left is to sort it out. How about –" Here she takes a step back. "– you let them through, and we'll have no more trouble?"

They have not long to wait.

Combeferre first, and then – Enjolras, one arm around Combeferre's shoulders, face pale and teeth grit, then Grantaire, looking worried.

They come out warily, ready for resistance even as she notes blood dotted along fabric, and stop short when nothing impedes their progress.

Éponine gives them a mock salute. Opposing side or no, this receives scattered chuckles.

'_Maybe there is commonality in us_,' she thinks wryly, and then dismisses this.

Combeferre, ducking under their captain's arm momentarily, places in the hand of the twitchy man a key, and inclines his head towards where they came from. "Free them as soon as we are off. You'll find them none the worse for wear."

Then, supporting an unhappy Enjolras, they make their way back. Once back aboard, she trails along behind.

She wants to know where she stands now.

It is not serious.

The bullet did not graze him, but the merchant that launched himself in a frenzy, intending to bludgeon with the gun, did the damage.

Not enough to incur _real_ worry – though Joly frets enough that she thinks at first the Amis will soon be left leader-less – but enough to hinder him. His right hand is encased in bloodied bandages, which extend almost to his elbow.

Which leads to this.

"This is the best way to learn about what we believe," he is telling her. He paces across the floor of what she has come to think of as the captain's office, seeming more and more convinced of the idea. Any thoughts she'd had over whether he'd be well enough to continue are long gone, as he sees fit to motion even with his arm covered and padded. Now, he whirls to face her, to emphasize his point. "You said yourself you wanted something to do, and, as I'm sure you've noticed, everyone else has established tasks."

Her fingers flex nervously over her arms, though she does her best to look partially unaffected as she leans against the desk. "Someone else would be a better choice. _Anyone _else!" Éponine would not say she is desperate, but she is pleading as she attempts to reason. She is so far from the shadows she is used to, now, and if she accepts, she does not know if she can slip out of notice again. "The lady, even – I bet she could."

"And," he adds, resuming his pacing as if he had not heard her, "Courfeyrac tells me you cannot read."

She flushes in indignation. "I can read!" she protests hotly, then falters when he sends her a look. "A little," she amends, and glowers.

"It's a useful skill to have. A good one." He inclines his head, as though the weight of a new thought forces it. "Can you write?"

"I –" And like that, her anger is gone, flitting away into shame. "No," she mutters, lowering her eyes.

"Then I will teach you."

Her mouth clicks shut as she jerks her head back up. Too much protest is, as always dangerous, and would rouse suspicious, and – and –  
…and he would teach her to _write_? To read more than simple, stuttering lines?

"So it's settled, then?" he continues, casting her a glance over her shoulder. "You will write for me?"

She nods slowly, tensed but trying to settle into the idea. "I will."

* * *

A/N: Have I mentioned that I don't particularly like writing dialogue? Why, then, I keep making it a necessity is beyond me. Your feedback has been greatly appreciated, and makes me weep in gratitude.


	9. Letters

"Make that darker – and put more space between the next words."

There is ink dotting along her forearm and a slash of it along her nose. She has a habit of writing with her fingers too close - too close to the nib, too close to the paper - and so when she rubs at her face, it leaves smudges of dark ink in the wake of her fingers.

Enjolras had been set in the goal of more productivity, earlier, but when he had to slow his speech-writing to spell out every other word, he settled simply on teaching her.

They have been working on Cosette's letter - coaching her in what to say so the lady can reproduce it.  
Éponine's allowed her many mistakes, allowed to cross out words so they're ugly and dark, because he's still thinking of the best way to put it.

In all honesty, she thought she would have had a harder time of it. It's not that he is a particularly patient teacher - in fact, she can catch flashes of masked irritation the farther off her spelling is. But she wants to learn, and he is teaching her, unsatisfied or not.

He leans in close to peer at the page, one hand – his good one - bracing him against the back of her chair. "What does that say?"

She huffs out a breath that brushes against the ends of her hair, brushing against her forehead from under her hat. Maybe she should trim it? Just a few inches. "Restitution," she answers calmly.

"No," he says dryly, "that says _'restitewshun_.'" He draws out the word. "Julien, if you're unsure, don't do it phonetically."  
She looks at him blankly. "Phonetically?" She asks. To her credit, she mimics it rather well, with minimal stumbling.  
"It means – if you don't know how to spell a word, you can ask me."  
She rolls her shoulders to fight against the growing stiffness. "Thought I did."

Enjolras does not answer, and the pause is significant enough that she takes to sketching in the margins – sharp 'M's and thin 'E's and looping 'C's – and so his next question seems sudden. "So how is it you know to write in partial thoughts, but not fully?"

She sends him a cautious glance, judging. "My family was… well-off, once," she begins slowly. If she omitted some details, well, why should he care? "Owned an inn, when there was only three. It didn't last." Idly, she scratches new letters above the ruined word. If t-e-w wasn't it, maybe t-w-o? "Running it was too much, and it didn't make enough to take care of five." _Let alone seven_, she thinks, and a flash of sick guilt sears her stomach. She mourned their losses long ago, before she even knew their names, until things got worse and she figured they were better off with someone else. "So we sold it. Sold everything."

The pen only occasionally touches the page, now, and she does not raise her head. Were it not for the quiet noise of encouragement Enjolras makes, she would probably stop there.

"It made it worse though. Harder to pretend were doing fine when we'd lost all the books, the dresses –"  
He raises an eyebrow. "Dresses?"

She could have kicked herself. "My sister – Azelma – was hit hardest," she says, and hopes she does not seem to waver. "'vroche and I did alright in rags, but she missed the finery." It's true enough, in parts. She missed the clothes as much as 'zelma did, though, and they learned to adjust together. "Before, though… my parents read to me, taught me to write in the logbooks." _My mother fed me on fairy tales and tragic love._ "And after, there was no time. That, monsieur, is how you learn partway." She taps the pen against the paper, eager to be doing… anything but this. "And starting again may get me the rest of the way."

Appearing to agree, Enjolras runs a hand through his hair, leaving curls to bounce gently, and leans in again. He plucks the pen from her grasp as he begins to scan the contents of the letter – and she freezes as there is a brief moment of contact.

Éponine once was charmed by style, by pretty faces and voices that did not crack. Montparnasse played on this, for a time, until she realized how quickly beauty can turn deadly; Marius taught her to value softness of expression and kind speech, but this – this is different. Personal questions and proximity together is oddly… intimate, in a way she has only skimmed upon before.

Closeness has been a thing to fear far longer than a source of comfort.

These thoughts come quickly, but in the time they come, Enjolras has already made several marks. He crosses out an entire section, and that is what makes her pay attention, irritation flaring. If her spelling was that bad, why wouldn't he –

"No," she hears him mutter, "that isn't quite right."

And like that, her last of her hesitation vanishes. _So the marble man is human after all._

She fixes him with a curious look. "You're not really accustomed to writing ransoms, are you, monsieur?"

"No," he replies, and this gives her the first _real_ hint of anything beyond patience since they began. Resignation and frustration both abound as he glances at her. "And you?"

Not people. Jewelry and trinkets – heirlooms worth more sentimental value than what they could glean from selling it outright. A dog, once, though her father swore to stick to what could be pocketed after all the fuss they'd made trying to keep it.

She shrugs – and then is struck by a moment of sudden boldness. "Enough; and, now, if I speak and you will listen, I will tell you how I have seen it done."

So it is that the gamine teaches the bourgeoisie in turn.

* * *

A/N: I changed so many things around in this, so… hopefully it still makes sense? I made some revisions to the previous chapter, too, but those should help.  
(…no, but seriously, writing this interaction was difficult and painful and if you have any critiques to make characterization better, that would ease my mind like nothing else.  
Also, I will get to replies very, very soon, I promise - thank you so much to everyone!)


	10. Routine

Éponine slips into a quiet sort of routine like this.

Enjolras compliments her work with her hands, once – sword fighting and writing both – and in those words, too, so that Grantaire shoots her a look and she has to fight back a grin. A real one.

She does show improvement. Her handwriting is atrocious, all cramped and slanted, but she writes quicker, with fewer mistakes. They come to the end of a speech with her as transcriber, which earns her a quiet, "well done" and a glow of pride that lasted the rest of the day.

The draft of the letter is finished quickly. With Enjolras watching over her, she cannot give any outright directions, but certain phrases form hints under her hand. A point on the docks is emphasized; she can only hope he will remember where she and Azelma passed by most in their delivery of letters.

Cosette pens the phrase "and É as well" after the approved "I am safe," and Éponine has to come up with the lie that the Captain of the _Cyclamen_ had been a friend of Baron Pontmercy, and he will be thrilled to hear that Émeric was left unharmed. Secretly, Éponine is pleased at the addition, despite the trouble it gives her.

The Amis… accept Cosette. The wariness does not fully dissipate, but she is no longer '_the baron's betrothed_' first and _Cosette_ second. They take care not to say anything that could be used against her – the exact layout of the ship is always described differently to her, Éponine notes – but they are no longer restricted from talking to her at all.

It's a thought that would once have filled her with – jealousy, perhaps, and yet she is content.

(Cosette does get that change of clothes, too – upon Éponine's request, Cosette twists and turns every which way until Éponine is satisfied that it will last them through their escape.

She tries not to notice the lump of dread that clogs her throat at the thought.)

And she knows them.

She learns the story of Bossuet's names, though it is a long and confusing one; learns that, for all his bad luck, his spirits are never dampened; learns that he believes that the best of his luck was poured into finding Musichetta, a kind enough woman by description, and Joly.

She knows Joly, too, and how he fears every malady and studies medicine for the prevention of these ills; how he will tend to those he believes need tending to, despite these worries, and rejoices in every sliver of goodness to be found; how he shares all he has with Bossuet, his dear friend, and they seem to be opposing sides in the highs and lows of luck, he with the worries of, Bossuet with the physicalities of.

She learns how Jehan – for that is what he prefers to be called – is no longer allowed to write the reports because they will devolve into poetry at the ends; how, for all his delicate features, he is as quick with the draw as anything he has ever seen; and she has never known a kinder heart.

She learns that Bahorel takes few things seriously, and is always ready with a witty comment; his sense of humor is bold, so much so that his comments seem to draw offense, but she sees that they are amiably meant; and she learns that he is most likely to instigate a fight, though not out of spite, and she spars with him a few times when Grantaire is unavailable.

She learns how Feuilly is – or was, really – a maker and painter of fans, and she marvels at the intricate art; he came from even worse beginnings than she, fully orphaned; she learns how he is self-made, and has taught himself all he knows, and even pulls from him a promise to show how he improved his writing, so that she may be further taught.

She learns that Combeferre is a student of philosophy, and temperate; more than once she sees him act as the voice of reason for Enjolras, when meetings lead to ideas that have grown grand and fluid and she is scratching out the last of the notes; and still he is no less passionate.

She learns that Courfeyrac, for all the skill with women he boasts, maintains a quiet air of respect, so that the draw is not hard to see; that into the words of philosophers cold and dead he breathes life, warm and personable; that he is quick to the best without imagining away the worst.

She learns that Grantaire believes less in the cause, and more in the man behind it – _if anyone can do it, he can_; he takes to life with a strange mixture of indifference and vivacity, and this, she thinks, is the reason for the conflict in his humor.

Even Enjolras becomes less of a mystery to her.

He believes in what he preaches, believes it as fiercely and strongly as any martyr, and places faith – undue, even if she would not speak this – in the power of his, of _their_ patria to shake off her shackles of tyranny. He carries the weight of responsibility, of the thought that plans will fail and friends will fall, carries the every need of people who do not ask it of him, who would not thank him for it.

(One sleepless night, when dreams have tormented her half to sickness, she remembers the tale of Atlas, and thinks that this slender, golden-haired revolutionary is too much a boy to bear such weight.)

Quietly, almost unknowingly, she divulges her knowledge to him, giving voice to that which was before unconscious thought.

She tells him that pride leads to unwillingness and rigidity in thoughts, that some are happy in their poverty, or believe themselves to be, that one vagabond is an ocean of divergence from the next, that people do not like to be made some shadowy 'they,' and that actions create ripples that last beyond words.

Of her own situation, she speaks little. That "we did not do well" is the most she says of it, but even with small secrets spilled, she sees adjustments in plans until they lie concurrent with her speech, and she is proud of these university boys, even as she fears the results of their bold plans.

She is taught; she knows; she flourishes; she grows.

She thinks less and less of dwelling within shadows, and less and less of the days ahead. Each passing moment, she grows more comfortable, more at ease.

One night even sees her partaking in a drinking contest with the Grand R himself.

Who challenged who, she will never remember – she vaguely recalls his bold assertions that there were none alive who could best him at drinking, to which she declared that her father once owned one half of a wine shop, and she could drink him under the table – and everyone else ended up too inebriated to recall who won, including their brave captain, to her surprise and delight. She only remembers her arm thrown over Grantaire's shoulders, loudly and drunkenly singing the bawdiest songs she knew.

(If she could carry on like this, where she is waiting, only waiting, she thinks she could be happy, but they are nearing France, and she is afraid.  
So much rests on her shoulders, though she knows she could never bear the weight as Atlas does, and she finds herself wondering if it will be worth it.)

* * *

A/N: In the slight chance that Javert might be, oh, I dunno – say, the captain of a ship – what would said ship's name be? (Because I might end up naming her something like _Justice_ or _Judgement_ without input.)  
And, uh… yeah, next chapter things will be going down. ouo  
And that lovely graphic up there was made by justshortofferocious. I'm still in awe. Seriously, go check it out in all it's glory here: post/45754353048/of-sand-and-distant-shores-those-who-whisper


	11. The Reveal

"Two on Jondrette!"  
"Are you mad? Three on Grantaire!"  
"Sticking with the underdog does have a certain poetic license to it."  
"Bossuet, put your money on Grantaire – I want to be sure to win."

Éponine grins as the bets pour in, happy to entertain, and happier still when the cheers are directed at her.

Enjolras had even come by, and though he sighed at the spectacle, the wry smile gave him away. He'd let them be after gaining their promises to be productive after, and after repeating the request to bring more paper when she came by later.

His hand has been healed for two days now, and so the hours spent as transcriber are less frequent, but he continues to teach. Sometimes, simple phrases; sometimes, the pretense of helping with speeches when his mind works to fast for his hand – and she knows it is a pretense because if he cannot keep up with his own thoughts, how could she?

She has no hope of matching his rapid pace of speaking, let alone spelling everything right, but she doesn't mind.

No one else has ever _cared_ so much, and she is continually impressed by the efforts.

But now is not the time for such thoughts.

No, now she is circling Grantaire, with sunlight streaming around them. Up top, sparring is much more pleasant. More competitive, certainly, but she likes being able to see smaller movements she might have missed in lower light, and she grows accustomed to the gatherings they draw in such moments as now.

It begins the same as always. Each matches the other in simple steps and footing. (She knows he is humoring her, but it serves to make him look more impressive later on, and gives her more time to adjust.)

Éponine is the first to falter. Her strike has too much force behind it, too much surety that it will hit true, when he deflects it easily.

She steps back too quickly, too far, and another swipe near her midsection sends her tumbling to the ground, the wind knocked out of her.

When she recovers, there is silence.

_No, it can't be over yet – and wouldn't they be cheering? They're waiting, then._

She reaches up to tug her cap more firmly over her head, determination welling up – and dissipating when her fingers touch empty air.

Then does she chance to look up.

She is met with the sight of faces in varying degrees of surprise, from stillness to outright shock.

Her head jerks side to side – and there it is across the deck, knocked clean off.

Her hair falls in dark tangles around her, her face revealed more fully as it has been in a month.

She sees Grantaire send a glance over his shoulder, his expression hard to gauge, and that is when she strikes.

Éponine twists her leg to knock against his, and as she stumbles, she pushes herself up. Her hand is still curled around the hilt, and this, she thrusts into his stomach. Back and farther back she drives him, until she is too close for him to fully block her next strike.

He falls, in much the same position as she was in only moments ago, only he does not have the forethought to hide his dazed expression.

"That's the second time I've knocked you flat," she says as she stands above him, voice made of false lightness. "If I were you, I'd start to rethink your strategy." Her voice is starting to waver, and she throws down her sword. It clatters to the deck, and she walks – she does not run, does not flee, does not let them see her panic – away and down the stairs, and into her room.

She closes the door as quiet as can be, and presses her back up against it. Slowly, slowly, she slides down, her head bowing as if with the weight of it all.

That's it. She's screwed it all up.

What does she do? How does she reconcile this? (Who would have ever thought it would take one second to send her to ruins?)

Cut it off. There was the solution. Cut it off and bind her chest tighter and make her voice as scratchy and deep as she could get it.

But she does not want to.

Oh, Éponine knew she wasn't pretty anymore. Not for years, not since before robberies and begging and oceans of distrust, but she could at least pretend.

She would bury her face in her hair and pretend she was being coquettish, a lady in waiting, pretend that – before Marius, that the drunken hands fisting in her hair to pull her in closes did so because they loved her, even as she fled from them; after, because they thought she was beautiful.

She does not want to lose this last remnant, but it doesn't matter much now, does it? Survival comes first. She would cut it – but with what? She has no knife. She'd thrown the sword down to the deck when she fled.

Éponine cannot help herself, and a nervous giggle burbles from her throat at the absurdity of it – cutting her hair with a sword? She's getting ahead of herself, going into overkill.

It builds until she is laughing hysterically, and then the laughs that rack her body soon turn into sobs.

She is found out, and it has all been for naught.

Except… no one comes.

No one comes to beat the door down, to demand an explanation for her trickery, to throw her at once into the brig and denounce her.

And they have docked already, haven't they?

Her thoughts come dimly, slowed by fear and the pounding of her heart, and she curses herself. Yes, they were to land today, and this, she supposes, is why she has been granted this time.

Too busy with readying the ship for landing, a task which she should have – she was supposed to –  
_To help_, she thinks. _They won't want my help now._

What does this mean for her?

Her answer is something she already knows.

She was not planning on it being so soon, so close to arrival but – she hasn't got much choice, has she?

She cracks the door open a fraction and peers out.

It's dark. Quiet. In all the excitement, perhaps they forgot to assign someone else to watch? It's unlikely, and yet – and yet –

Out the door she goes, running on quick and quiet feet. It takes only a moment to check whether the deck is empty. She can hear faint footsteps, and she assumes this is Enjolras, planning late into the night. Back down she goes, running past Joly's room, then Bossuet's, Jehan's, and Feuilly's, to the cells placed between the hallways.

If she had time, she would take what she could of the _Cyclamen's_ cargo, enough to ensure them safe passage back, but she cannot risk it now.

"Cosette," she whispers into the darkness, fingers already seeking out the bar across the door. "Cosette, we have to go. Come on, quietly."

The voice that answers is tinges with sleep, but the questing hand meets hers and holds tight in resolution. "Come on," she says again, and they are flying.

Back they go, slower now, and silent. They pass the rooms in reverse, and when they get to hers, she notices –

Despite her quick retreat, they left two trays out for her. Lunch and dinner, she supposes, and she fights against the frown that

The hatch barely creaks as they lift it and emerge, barely makes a sound as they lower it again and make for the edge that is tethered, and she is so close, so close to freedom, to her Paris, to Marius –

"Hold," comes a voice from behind, along with a distinctive _click_.

– but it could never be that easy.

Her breath stills, and she forces herself to turn, though she recognizes the voice. Her hand tightens at her side. _No_.

And there he is, terrible as an angel in his wrath. He looks tired, but stern, and in his hands, he holds a pistol. _When did he get one of those?_ She wonders idly. _Did he have that back – on the merchant ship_? Perhaps she hadn't needed to worry so much, then.

Combeferre is close behind him, unarmed but looking no less fierce. She curses herself again. Of course he wouldn't be planning alone, not for something of this magnitude, she should have been so much more careful.

_No, no, no_ repeats along with her rapid pulse, growing all the more as she watches his eyebrows knot together in consternation.

"You?" he breathes, eyes sliding from Éponine to Cosette and back.  
_No, no, no, no._

She sees him waver for a moment, his voice not so stony anymore. "You would – betray us?

The words are as knives to her.

"No." The answer comes not from Éponine, but behind her, and she startles.

Cosette steps closer and puts her arms around Éponine, clean and pretty hands resting on grubby arms.

"She is Marius' dearest friend," she declares, "and she has only ever been loyal and true."

Éponine is suddenly immensely grateful for the existence, the loyalty, the _friendship_ of this little lark, and as she brings up her hands to cover Cosette's, she feel as if the girl is her anchoring point in this storm – especially as Enjolras narrows his eyes and her heart gives a painful twinge.

He steps closer, and she wants to explain, to stem the look in his eyes, but he draws only near enough to rip the hat from her head and then retreats again. She watches as his expression turns all the more rigid, and winces.

_No_, she wants to protest, _we would not have betrayed you, can't you see? Loyalty to both, to both…_

But she does not understand it.

She does not understand the draw to them, the desire to be true.

And she fears this.

So Éponine casts her eyes to the floor and sets her mouth in a line, as she is led away.

Courfeyrac meets them at the bottom of the steps, awoken by the noise, she supposes, and his yawn draws her attention up. He rubs sleep-crusted eyes until he catches sight of her, at which point his gaze shifts from confusion to realization to hurt in a matter of mere seconds. She locks her gaze on the floorboards and does not look up, not even when they are led back into the cell, the door closed tight behind them.

* * *

Across the ship, the silence is not much better.

He does not shout. He does not rage.

He paces.

Across the length of the room wit harms folded behind his back, he looks like a man possessed. Several times he opens his mouth as if to speak, to voice the questions that press at his mind, but each time he only continues walking.

Finally, he stops, running a hand through his curls.

"Send the letter ahead," he says quietly, the first words he's spoken in many minutes. "Two instead of one will take care of it."

Combeferre knows better than to argue when Enjolras is like this – and besides this, his friend may be as lost as he, right now.

* * *

"Well," she says breathlessly, a laugh and a sob lying close beyond the edge of her words, "that didn't really work out as planned did it?"

The cell is not so terrible, really, but when she was used to this, used to capture and confinement, Éponine knew there was someone on the outside who _knew_. Here, there is nothing, no one to save her, and she feels trapped.

She has brought this on herself, she knows, but she is so used to silence that she no longer knows when it will act against her – and it is this thought that echoes until she feels as though she must speak, or suffocate.

"I loved him," she blurts, a confession born of desperation.  
Confusion laces Cosette's voice. "Who? One of the Am-?"  
"Marius." _And that's it_, she thinks in the silence, _one more tie severed_.  
And then a hand rests on her knee, settling as gently as a bird – Cosette, ever the lark, moves in closer.

"Do you still?" comes the quiet voice. She groans in response, sinking lower. "Does he know?"  
"It's _Marius_," she says, and it comes out on the edge of a sigh.  
"So, no." Éponine presses a hand tight over her mouth to hold back a laugh at this boldness. The moment of mirth does not last long.

"I think if, I am to lose him –" she draws in a shaky breath, but she cannot dispel the image of quiet strength. "Then you are – you are who I least mind–" She can't go on.

"Oh, Éponine…" Without seeing her face, it is difficult for Éponine to read the emotions lingering on the lady's face. "Thank you."  
"For – what?" She swipes the heel of her palm across her face, dragging it from cheekbone to eyelid, until the only moisture left on her face is from tears yet to fall.

A hand finds her free one, fingers interlacing and squeezing. "For telling."

A shaky laugh escapes her, and her head rolls to the side, hitting Cosette's shoulder and resting there. Delicate fingers come up to comb through her ratty hair, an attempt to sooth. "Shhh…" murmurs the lady. "We'll make it out of this yet."

Éponine hiccups, the closest to a sob she'll let herself get. "Yeah," she says, "yeah."

If it were only her at risk here, she would be happy to die, now. Never can she remember breathing so easily. For one moment, Éponine Thénardier is laid bare to the world, and her newly-freed truths have left her strung up above the world; whether she is to fall or be left floating would be determined in the morning.

And she will endure this mixture of weightlessness and heaviness of heart, of bliss and misery, until then.

* * *

A/N: This is not the end! This is, I think, not even the _beginning_ of the end! But a girl who fancies herself in love has several hurdles to jump before she is ready to love another, and this is the beginning of Éponine's trials.  
Admittedly, I will have quite a bit more to map out now that this is written, but… well, who doesn't want to write themselves an epic?  
I really, really hope this conveyed everything I wanted it to convey, and that it didn't go by to quickly. I've been ridiculously nervous about this chapter, and feedback would be greatly appreciated.


	12. Transition

Morning brings a stiff neck and aches in her back. It's no wonder, really – as she slept, her head flopped back against the bench, and she has curled into herself in an attempt at warmth.

Cosette seems to have had an easier time of it – at Éponine's urgings, she curled up on the bench. Éponine is, after all, used to uncomfortable sleeping situations. Still, she imagines they will both be sore after this.

The ability to choose her own sleeping arrangements will be a welcome change, she notes, but this thought brings little cheer.

She wiggles her fingers until they pop and unfolds herself slowly. The cell is not overly large, but she has enough space to stretch her legs, and so she walks.

When she is feeling more like herself, Éponine gathers her hair and knots it back, and it stays, caught on tangles. Undoing it will be a long and arduous process, but at least it keeps it from her eyes. She wishes for the obscuring qualities of her cap, but that is beyond her, now.

So she leans against a wall, crosses her arms, and waits.

Cosette wakes with a fluttering of eyelids, and a yawn that ends in a squeak. She sends Éponine a sleepy grin which fades when, the reality of the situation seems to dawn on her. "What do we do when they come?" she asks.

Éponine puffs out her cheeks, thinking of how best to phrase what she has been thinking. "Nothing," she admits. "We're going with their plan."

Cosette sends her an inquisitive look, and Éponine lets her head loll back against the wall before responding. "They _know_," she explains quietly. "They won't be waiting any longer than they have to, and they certainly won't be giving us any more of a chance to run. If we tried, it'd be… risky."

"But not if we go along with it." It's not exactly a question, and Éponine shakes her head, and pushes off from the wall to sit by Cosette. She cannot hear anyone outside the cell, but she knows this is not proof that they are alone.

"No," she says, "not if we go along."

They have little to say from there, but it is better for their nerves to talk, and so they make quiet conversation of silly plans.

Éponine would estimate they have been at this for an hour when they are sent for, and suddenly, there goes every attempt to still her nerves.

Bahorel is the one to bring them, and the silence that follows in their wake is strange.

Combeferre is the only constant, as the rest rush about making preparations. The bright flag has long since been lowered, and makes the ship look duller, somehow.

They are not above for long, but it seems to Éponine to take a lifetime though every averted gaze and, every set of pursed lips.

Grantaire makes as if to say something when he passes, pausing before her, but he turns away, and she finds that her own words fail her.

The sound of footsteps is her only warning, and then Enjolras stands before them. He looks worn-out, more than she's ever seen him, and his voice has an edge of something she doesn't like. "And now, mademoiselles, if you will but follow –"

And Éponine cannot bear this. "Please," she says a whisper the most she can muster, "don't do this. Please, I –"

He holds up a hand and keeps his gaze steady, and the words falter in her throat.

Her heart thuds uselessly, and her mind is eased little even when Cosette slides her hand into Éponine's in silent solidarity. A job gone wrong results usually in, in – in harsh words, or a slap across her face, or prison, sometimes, when she cannot run fast enough, but never in this.

Enjolras continues speaking, and his tone is clipped. "The carriage will bring you to Baron Pontmercy, and then you will have the freedom you so desire."

"Two for the price of one," she hears, and she tries not to notice the tinge of bitterness in his voice, and neither does she let herself note how Bossuet hesitates before nudging her forward, or the look on Courfeyrac's face – or how Enjolras won't even spare her more than a passing glance as he walks away.

They are led. Blindfolds are a bit too obvious for their purposes, she supposes, and so they are hurried as quickly as possible

They take too many turns to get there pass through too many alleyways to remain close to the docks.

She cannot say she is familiar with every twist and turn – Paris manages to keep a few secrets from her even after these years – but if there is a place of ill repute, there is a fair chance that Éponine will know of it, or of who runs it, or of who frequents it.

So she can guess the approximate location of this establishment by the few faces she recognizes, though its name escapes her.

A middleman is sent for, and bought, on both sides. She does not see the exchange take place, but she knows how these things work.

Courfeyrac and Bossuet leave them in the care of an aged gentleman who escorts them politely to a carriage. She wonders if they pay him more because he is one of those miserables they want so badly to elevate, or only what he asks for, given the unsavory nature of his job.

And then it's done. Like waking from a dream, Éponine has emerged from a world of boldness and bright ideas to the muted streets of Paris, where life surrounds but hides, life that is praised by the boys – too idealistic and hopeful to be called anything else – she has left behind.

She is home in these streets where she learned to run, to talk so as to be heard, to move so as to be ignored, but she feels far away.

Éponine is silent as the carriage begins its slow rumbling over stones, silent as the docks bleed away, silent as she lowers her head against her thoughts and tries to forget.

* * *

A/N: Bear with me for a bit I know what I'm doing (sorta)  
(And thank you so much for the reviews, oh my goodness, it's so nice to hear your thoughts ;u; )


	13. A Decision

Marius is thrilled to see them.

Marius had looked at Cosette like his world had fallen apart without her – and who knows? The boy is prone to melodrama when it comes to matters of the heart.

And when he'd seen her… he swept her into his arms in a crushing embrace and cried, "Éponine, you are the dearest friend that has ever lived! I knew you would bring her home safely to me, I knew it!"

And she felt… fine.

It was to her deepest unsettlement that she realized the dizziness from being spun was a stronger feeling than pleasure at his happiness or misery at the soft words he showered on Cosette.

There are things she likes about being back.

The baths, she'll admit, are nice. The first one had been under Cosette's insistence – and, actually, at Marius', too. Éponine had scrubbed her skin pink and scratched her nails against her scalp until the soap bubbles stopped coming out grey and stumbled into her borrowed bed feeling more physically together than she could remember being in… well, ever. The next required far less prodding, and she felt hardly any guilt once they (rather grudgingly) allowed her to carry the water in and out herself.

She is pleased to note, too, that her coloring has evened out just a touch underneath the dirt, and though rations aboard either ship were, out of necessity, hardly ample (and here, she does not dare put on airs and fancy herself a lady enough to dine at tables where everything set out is clean and new, but rather sneaks scraps afterwards), there is more of her to hold when she pinches at her side.

She does not allow herself to be dressed in bright gowns – '_won't take your charity, or your money neither, no sir'_ – but retrieving the money she'd stashed away is a simple matter, and it manages to purchase her that which is better-fitting, and in newer cloth. (Between setting it out and counting it, there's more than she remembered, but if Cosette had a hand in it, the lady feigned innocence well enough.)

There are others she doesn't.

It's difficult to sleep on floors that do not tilt (she took one look at the ridiculously plush arrangement of blankets over the wooden frames and instantly reassigned herself away from it), and the occasional murmur of a footman or a clamor from the streets is nothing compared to the whistle of the wind and the shouts of those trying to reach beyond it.

If she wakes at odd hours, as she is wont to do, she cannot slip away and walk around; if she does walk around (for what hold does propriety have on Éponine Thénardier? Nothing and no one has truly held her since she was eight and her world of soft laughter and warmth bled away into visions of dirtied cobblestone, why should this be any different?) then she meets no smiling face on her way.

But whether she could learn to temper the bad aspects with the good does not matter; she cannot stay forever. A sense of obligation drives her, though it is not to the usual suspect this time.

If it was only a matter of keeping Marius happy, then she could grow used to this, to this world of too-softs and too-cleans, where everything is powdery and lacey, where sharp words are blunted and intentions are masked – Marius is certainly grateful to the point where he shows no resistance to the idea of Éponine as a permanent resident, an odd little addition.

But… it's not, this time.

Éponine is not made a fool for much – she can charm and con with the best of them, and has, in fact, done just this; she knows when a wretched soul on a street-corner is truly destitute or whether he has blackened his teeth with ashes in order to evoke more sympathy; she knows how to pick out a likely target from a crowd and how to see which ones would pick her pocket right back; she knows how to tailor her speech in response to an aristocrat's rich tones and when it is too much effort to bother.

Éponine is a fool for love.

She has skulked around alleyways for love, delivered messages for love, waited hours in the rain for love, gotten herself captured for love, organized escapes for love, and still, she is not loved. Not like she wants.

It's different for everyone, she knows; she's seen it.

Azelma wants riches, dresses adorned with ribbons and baubles that would set off her hair, or match the color of her eyes, expensive little trifles bought exclusively for her – but at the end of it, Éponine knows Azelma wants someone who would care enough to lay down everything to their name. It's why Éponine has never thought her sister is quite the fool their father says; Azelma wants grand gestures, but the girl does not mistake them for love, and neither does she brush away gestures of love when enacted by the penniless.

(In all honesty, Éponine hopes that her sister will be swayed by the kindness of a particular guard at Les Madelonettes, who had a hand in keeping them from the coldest and dampest cells so that they did not fall ill like their mother, but she can be at least content that her sister recognized the efforts.)

Gavroche – well, the boy is fourteen, and shows more interest in the theater than in any romantic pursuits, but Éponine thinks even this holds more wisdom than her own methods.

And Éponine wants… happiness. Éponine wants willing arms around her, and kind words, and she could not care less whether the speaker has only the clothes on his back or is the king himself, as long as she is happy.

She has never really known where to obtain this happiness.

With Marius, she had thought. She held a prince in her mind, appearance ever-shifting, until she met him and all her dreams of love bore a freckled face with a lopsided grin beneath the crown. He has been the only one she thought would suit her, but now… he is gone from her.

The thought that stays whispers that she would not take him even if he offered; Cosette is no longer a darkened shadow in the corner of her mind, but a light in her own right, and she would not dim either one with her actions, if she could help it.

And… she has felt happiness. Not the kind she dreamed of, to be sure, but real, and quickly given.

If she can find such happiness without the discovery of a prince… well, it's certainly an intriguing thought.

And there is one who could help her find out. Whatever she is to do in the coming days, she knows she must see to her brother, first.

Gavroche sees people in all states. He watches the faces of the audiences – at the theater, at the opera, at the guillotine – he understands them at their highest, at their lowest. He is allowed to creep underfoot because of his age, his size, and so he hears every secret that is whispered on Parisian streets.

And, even if she learns nothing else, and she has no doubt that he is well – he is Gavroche, after all – she wishes for news of her sister.

Cosette comes to her as she is tying up her hair in preparation to leave. The lady is nervous, and it does not take long for the reason why to emerge. "Éponine, there's something I thought you should know. Really, no one is supposed to know, but I thought… you knew them better than I, and you may have seen kindness from them, even in those circumstances."

Éponine stills at the mention, though she keeps her tone casual. "Oh?"

There's a moment more of fidgeting, and a sigh. "They've… sent the _Sentinel_ after them."

Éponine's fingers spasm on her skirt.

The _Sentinel_, captained by a man said to hold the intensity of Orion himself, and a hunter of equal intensity. If the Amis are caught by such a man…

She murmurs gratitude to the lady as she kisses her cheeks, already distracted by the search she begins with renewed vigor.

* * *

He is not hard to find.

He sits on the edge of a tiered fountain, watching over those who pass by, and looking all the world to be a ruler in his own domain.

She knows he notices her, but she signals her intention of conversation by quietly calling, "Gav."

He looks up lazily, and grants her a genuine smile. "'Ponine. Where've you been?"  
When she hesitates, thinking of where to begin, he waves a hand. "'s alright, I've already heard." A rueful smile overtakes her; Gavroche had always been the cleverest of them.  
"That's what I wanted to talk to you about," she begins, smoothing her hands over her skirt. "What can you tell me of the Amis?"

* * *

A/N: This chapter was fun to write. =w=


	14. Trust

Éponine runs her hands down her dress again, eyeing the crowd.

She has not yet become re-accustomed to wearing dresses, and even before the trip, she is especially unused to wearing dresses to such places as these.

_It's not a good neighborhood_, she thinks dryly.

But there's not much else she can do – she can't go dressed up as _Julien Jondrette_ again. The get-up is too familiar, and the Amis might associate it with the many, many truths she kept from them.

So, for her purposes, the dress will suffice. It's plain, and ragged – bits and pieces of her old wardrobe make it up, with few truly new additions. The only thing that stands out is the bit of color tied around her waist, cloth that was once lavender. It helps her look _softer_ apparently, in place of the leather belt. She's not fond of it. It's far too easy to grab hold of, and much less sturdy.

Approaching them all directly would be simpler, but of course, the ship left the harbor days ago.

However, Gavroche tells her that some remained behind – looking for sympathizers, stirring them up with speeches. (Attracting attention, more like, but at least they are trying to be _somewhat_ discrete.) He'd given her the names of various establishments where she'd be most likely to succeed in her efforts, too.

She needs two audiences. Any of the Amis will work for the first, _if_ she's successful, but the second means she will need to speak with Enjolras, and she cannot imagine that will go smoothly.

Actually, she can't image _any_ of the meetings will go smoothly, and there is so much that could go wrong, but this is beyond her now – the situation is not looking good for them.

She'd found it odd, before. Pirates they may be, and ones that have certainly stirred up trouble, but enough for the _Sentinel_?

And then Gavroche told her what _else _they are wanted for.

Seems their benevolent intentions did not sit quite well with every crew. From what she could piece together, the deckhands on that cursed merchant ship decided that, rather than free those below, they would slay the lot and place the blame upon the Amis once they reached shore.

It does not matter that they had not done it. Who would believe their word? Who would believe that they steal from aristocrats to fuel their grand ideas, to raise up the people? Greed is a powerful motivator, after all.

And so, here she is.

From the sound of it, Combeferre's is making quiet speeches, and Courfeyrac is making the rounds here. Éponine can only catch snippets of conversation, but she admires the efforts. (Focusing on the injustices faced rather than on what the people are supposed to do certainly would win them over easier.)

One of the advantages, for gamin or gamine, is that very few people question their paths, or stop them. They become part of the scenery.

She slips away from the wall, meaning to search out Courfeyrac – and her plans change abruptly at the sight of curly black hair.

There is Grantaire, leaning against a post not far off from Combeferre.

The dress only does so much.

As she gets closer, she sees his eyes skip over her, then widen and return.

He frowns. "Julien?" he starts, and then his face closes off. She winces.

"Grantaire," she greets as he turns his gaze away. She knows he is still listening to her, and so she continues, lowly. "I made a mistake, and then more after that, but you have to listen to me."

Now she gets a moment of eye contact. "And why should we trust you?'

She's wondered this herself, wondered how to explain. "You shouldn't. Not really. After what I've done? Cutting all ties would be smarter. But I wish you wouldn't, because I know – it seems terrible, but I didn't want any of this to happen like this."

He is quiet, but at least he is looking at her. Éponine hisses out a breath between her teeth. It is not what she had planned. He is bitter, but more than she expected, and she tries to remember why, thinks back.

The glance over his shoulder to them, not gaping at her, and then earlier –

"You knew," she breathes, the words spilling from her lips. "You knew and you didn't tell him?" Realization dawns. "'What he doesn't know won't hurt him,'" she says softly.

He jerks his chin away. "Except it did," he mutters.

She winces. "Yeah. I didn't mean it to, I never – "

And another voice cuts in, one she recognizes. "Combeferre's just about made his point here, he thinks, and he's –"

Courfeyrac stops, eyes wide, gaze darting from her to Grantaire and back again. He sucks in a breath, and she breaks the silence before he can dart off. "Éponine," she tosses, "not Julien. Éponine. If you care to know."

He shakes his head and steps back.

"Wait a moment," she pleads. "Look, even if you don't trust me, even if you send me off, you – " They are watching her, hurt and betrayed, and she knows what she says here matters. She has never, never, never had such trouble with words, never had such trouble convincing, because isn't that what she does? Isn't that what she has been taught, all these years?

But she doesn't want to lie.

So she breathes in deep and tries for the truth. "They've got the _Sentinel_ after you. They think you thieves and murders both, and would hang you at the first chance."

Courfeyrac's eyebrows shoot sharply down, and Grantaire no longer looks so at ease where he stands.

Éponine falters. She doesn't know what she expected – for everything to be fine and dandy again? To be beckoned back, made a part of the family? "Just… know that," she finishes quietly, and turns away. She cannot _make _them trust her.

And then there is a hand on her arm.

"Éponine. Wait."

* * *

They move quickly.

They've got to, of course – revolutionary leaders turned pirates can't stay in one place too long.

Yet, somehow, they can make speeches in disreputable places. She knows she must tread carefully still, yet her face twists up at hearing this. "What, are you mad? They'll catch him in a second, they will, if any one of that crowd is a pinch loyal to the crown."

Grantaire chuckles quietly at this, and the smile she gives feels blistering in its wideness as her heart aches.

They leave her to it – their appearance behind her would give her the air of solidarity, and they aren't sure whether they can actually trust her. She understands, and though that doesn't stem the unpleasant feeling in her gut, she

She can do this, right? Of course she can.

He is not hard to spot, though it may have been more difficult had she not been searching for him, as he _did_ have enough sense to leave off the red coat.

Still, it is _ridiculously_ easy to sneak up behind him.

Enjolras seems frustrated, but given the lackluster appearance of the crowd, it isn't hard to imagine why. They appear more interested in drinking themselves to a stupor than in hearing about all the ways they have been slighted.

She is almost, almost smiling as she leans in close and murmurs, "don't you remember? It'll take more than words to rouse this crowd."

He stiffens. Turns. "Mademoiselle, I – " And if she thought he was tense before, it is nothing compared to this.

"Jondrette," he greets tersely.

"Thénardier, actually." She executes a little half-curtsey, her eyes never once leaving his. "Funny how a name can change so much, isn't it?" But she didn't come here to dance around the issue. She will find some way to articulate this – this – this change of heart, as it were, find some way to explain that she has never seen someone seem so sure of themselves and the words they speak, that he is likely the most well-intentioned man to ever step foot in this room.

So she takes a step back and steels herself, lets the false sweetness bleed out from her voice. Honestly is what matters here, and she must not forget that. When she speaks again, her voice is low, and fragile. "Before the monsieur would condemn me completely, hear me out. I've about had my fill of secrets. I will… explain, if you permit it."

Mouth still set in a line, he scans her face. She holds her breath and offers him a wobbling half-smile, and whatever he finds there, he must deem her worthy. He nods.

"You will speak," he says quietly, "and I will listen."

And the smile of relief that breaks out on her face is genuine.

* * *

A/N: Made a few changes to chapter 8 – when she has just boarded the ship, if you're curious – which hopefully make it less… jumbled. Also: just watched Les Mis again, which helped with this a bit, but also maybe made some parts feel more disconnected.  
(Those are the parts I wrote through my tears.)


	15. Tentative

Éponine has perhaps never been so strangely nervous in all her life.

"Come on then, captain, hurry up," she calls lightly. "Try not to look like you're impatient to be somewhere, it makes you look like an easy target."

"And how exactly would that make me look like a target?" Despite the intended destination being his own apartment – temporary, of course, and a better hide-out than any she has ever had – Éponine has taken the lead.

Or at least – Éponine has never been in such a situation where she _should not _be nervous – it's only words after all. What's the harm? – and yet _is_. It's a different sort of nervousness than she is used to. She cared for her father's opinion only so far as she could be sure he would not lash out; she cared for Marius' opinion when she feared she could not change it from the first impression of a skinny little thing rooting through his books; but she has kept the truest parts of herself hidden for so long that it never mattered what anyone thought of it.

She turns abruptly enough that he must stop short to avoid bumping into her, and she only speaks once he has paused. "Nobody's happy to go anywhere, here. No place to go that's worth going." This said, she whirls on her heel and continues on.

She doesn't have to look back to know that he is following again. The footsteps that match her pace are enough. "But you were saying–?"

Éponine knows exactly what she was saying; the rest of her explanation has yet to be muddled out.

She swings around a streetlamp before she replies, her boots squeaking against the metal as the light above flickers.

"It was a selfish plan," she says when she lands. "Selfish and, actually, not well-thought out. You didn't factor into it until later. All I wanted was to get her back to Marius. As if it'd win me some sort of favor with him."

"And this is because you love him."

She pulls a face she knows he can't see. From his mouth, the words seem silly and childish, and, wrong though she _may_ have been in assuming herself in love (she is still sorting this one out), it was nothing so simple as he makes it seem.

And she cannot tell what he thinks of this. She does not want him to believe her to _be_ silly and childish.

"Love him, yeah. Or loved, or…"

He motions to the side, indicting they are near, and here he takes the lead.

"…something. Doesn't matter. She's happy and he's happy and I'm… well enough."

"And have you always cared so for the well-being of the aristocracy?" he asks dryly. He is turned away from her in order to unlock the door of an apartment bordered closely by other doors, living spaces cramped together on a narrow street, and so it is difficult to discern fully what he thinks of this. Still, she _can_ detect a faint trace of curiosity in his tone.

"Oh, no," she remarks as she passes through the door, "it was unexpected, believe you me, monsieur. On both counts."

She folds her hands behind her back as she steps in, looking around.

It's small and sparsely-furnished, and what little furniture she can see in the first room of this (she assumes) two-room apartment is old and run-down, but still, she cannot help but think that it is better than the old Gorbeau house.

Maybe that's because her parents were there. Sleeping under bridges was still better than the old Gorbeau house as long as she was alone.

It could also be because he managed to fit a few books on the rotting shelf, and though she cannot imagine how that would be at all practical to a man who may have to flee with only moments of notice, she cannot completely begrudge him the choice. Books have been a far-away thing for her, this past decade; kept far enough from her that she began to forget their language.

Anything with a door that is more than rotting planks is better, too, and there is less confusion about the address. The '38' hung there looks more sturdy than the litany of conflicting '50's and '52's.

The windows are not quite so grand, though, she can say that much.

Enjolras locks the door behind him as she steps in, slipping the key back into a pocket, and this shakes her from her thoughts.

From some, the gesture would be menacing. Were it Claquesous, Gueulemer, Brujon, were it her father, or even Babet, who has sworn never to hit a lady (and in some moment of kindness, assured her he still thought of her as a lady, even if she did sometimes scheme with them), who had done it, she would not be so at ease, but she supposes it is an unconscious gesture from an unknowing bourgeois boy.

"You want to help because they're happy?"

"Mmh?" For a moment, she had forgotten that she left off in the middle of a thought. "Oh, no, it's… you – the Amis – are fighting for what no one else has. For people who would not fight with you."

He runs a hand through his curls and makes for the adjoining room, though he waves a hand to show he is still listening. After a moment, the glow of a candle sputters forth, and she can dimly make out the outline of a bed and an upright closet.

She is struck by the situation. It's clear he does not need to be here. No doubt he could live comfortable somewhere beyond this

Her words come easier after this. "And maybe you should not stand alone."

He reemerges sans the violet coat, looking tired.

"It's late," she states abruptly. How ineloquent she must seem next to him.

"You have some place to stay, then?" he asks.

She shrugs. "Yeah."

She doesn't, actually, but he doesn't know that – oh, but wasn't she trying for honesty?

So, reluctantly, she backtracks. "Well… no. I do not, actually. Never said when I'd be back, so it'd be rude to just drop in on dear Baron Pontmercy at such a late hour, wouldn't it?" Cosette would guess what she was up to, anyway, and explain it to Marius. _If_ she is successful. If not… well, she'll have to explain it herself, won't she?

She really, really hopes he believes her.

Éponine continues when it seems as though he is about to speak, displeased with her answer, and she adds hastily, "I'm not planning on sleeping, though. I thought I'd make some deliveries for you, if you were still in need of that."

He shifts slightly, and from the lack of response, she understands that he only guesses at her meaning."

"'Redistributing the wealth,'' she quotes, " 'to where it is most needed.'"

She flutters her fingers against each other, thinks, and decides to abandon tact entirely.

"Word of advice," she says, with a nod to a doctor's bag pushed carefully into a corner, "never leave anything like that in such an obvious hiding spot."

She has to suppress a smile at the sharp frown that overtakes his face. "It's just right for carrying money when you don't want it found, so naturally, everyone finds it there. If you wanted to make it more believable," she adds idly, "doctors 'round here generally take a corner house. It's easier to get people in and out there."

Her gaze snaps back to his, and she searches his face.

"You want to know why you should trust me not to take the money and run," she states.

To his credit, he doesn't bluster and deny it, just quirks an eyebrow and waits for her follow-up statement. She grins. "I just delivered a baron's fiancée from the clutches of notorious pirates with not a scratch on her. I'm pretty sure that'd earn me a small fortune, if I wanted it."

He leans back against a wall with arms crossed, and she wonders how he can be so commanding even when he should, by all rights, look ridiculous among peeling wallpaper and dying daisies. "Assuming he would trust your word."

"Assuming, yes," she concedes. "But there's my word and there's Cosette's; on the one hand, the friend of several years, and on the other, the woman he will soon marry."

She walks around the room, tracing the walls with her fingertips.

She's somewhat tempted to rescind her earlier statement, say she does need a place to stay, just to see if he would offer, to see if his desire to combat injustice – and what could be more unjust than leaving a young, frail girl to fend for herself in a place like this? – would override his sense of social propriety.

She really does want to help, though. Her father would be baffled.

"Did you know," she says suddenly, stopping at the shelf, "that I once saw a man stabbed in an alleyway?" He gives her a strange look, and then – seems to sense that she is going somewhere with this, perhaps by the way her fingers tap quickly over book spines.

(She is strangely pleased.)

"It was over nothing – pocket change – no more than a few decimes, and still someone thought it was enough to…" she squinches her mouth to the side and mimed a dagger across her throat. "Anyway," she continues, resuming her pacing, "you've got to be careful with these things. Someone knows someone else has what they don't, and you've got trouble."

She inclines her head towards it once more. "Now, I'd imagine there's a fair bit more than some centimes in there, though you wouldn't keep it _all_ in one place, either." No, after several successful raids, that would be more than folly.

By the look in her eyes, he knows exactly where she is going with this, but she vocalizes it anyway. "Think of how much trouble that could stir up if it doesn't go to the right people. Even a bit of it – wouldn't need more than a bit, anyway. Could get the message across."

Still, she feels as though she has not said enough, and so she breathes in deeply.

"I swear upon my honor as a Thénardier–" She stops herself. "Well, no," she amends, images of her mother's fluttering hands and her father's falsely charming smile flashing through her mind. "'pon my honor as an Éponine, then," she says. If she had not been thinking so intently on how to phrase this, she would have seen the ghost of a smile pass across Enjolras' face.

As it is, she so rarely heard true promises made that she did not think hers was strange at all. In fact, she is nodding to herself. "I keep those promises, I do."

And maybe this is what makes him agree.

She finds him sitting on the railings just outside the door, and she is not surprised that he followed her.

He giver her a nod and a touch of his cap. "Evening, 'Ponine," he greets. She smiles in response.

Sometimes she wonders whether he feels as protective of her, and of Azelma, as he does of the urchins trailing behind him.

But Gavroche has always been something – more. He sees more, understands more, than most of the unfortunates who live their whole lives on these streets, and so this thought does not bother her as much as it might.

Whether it comes from less of their parents' influence to taint him, or the familiarity with the theater, where disguises are assumed and shed as easily as a second skin, he _knows_ her, and it is not pity coming from him.

She hoists up the bag, now rag covered and looking all the world to be a mere bundle of ruined clothes, and descends the few short steps.

"C'mon, 'vroche. We've got work to do."

* * *

A/N: There is tentative trust. Tentative, but existent. (And, um, when it comes to the one line – it's one of those doors where you have to use a key to lock or unlock it regardless of which side you stand on.)  
(Also you all are lovely and this is not up for debate.)


	16. Morning

Across Paris, people wake in wonder.

Accustomed to dreary awakenings with morning dew their only companions, they find a moment of respite in regarding the curious occurrence.

In shoes, under hats, folded in between the curled hands of beggars – sous, centimes, decimes and even francs appear.

The most stubborn – those who would not accept the least bit of charity – find themselves unable to reject a coin or paper note, but rather that they now possess shoes a shade sturdier, a blanket a little warmer, or perhaps that their luck has increased to that they stumble over a coin where there is normally only bare street.

Monsieur Mabeuf not only finds his rhododendrons watered, but a note just outside his door, weighed down by a few coins and reading in rough handwriting: '_The gardens look very pretty this year, Monsieur._'

Azelma Thénardier dreams for a little while of sun-lit fields, and wakes to a coin pressed into her palm, lavender cloth wound loosely around her arm, and a soft kiss that is hours lost inside the tangles of her hair.

Across the city, when the brilliance of a scarlet sunrise has faded to soft blues and grays, an urchin flips a coin in the air, measuring its weight before tucking it into a pocket. "Something for you, something for me," he murmurs, and turns to call the attention of two little gamins who are splashing each other on the edge of a fountain, and a taller gamine with rags clutched to her chest.

The urchin readjusts his cap. "Come on, then, let's get something to eat."

Enjolras wakes in confusion.

It takes him a moment to remember that this is not his ship, and that he has, once again, fallen asleep with pen in hand. (His candle had the decency not to tip over and start a new fire, or to drip wax on the papers scattered across the desk.)

It's only when voices float under his door – "ir's too dry." "It's better'n most you'll find." – that he realized what has jolted him into sudden awareness.

There should not be voices in his room.

He is halfway to the door with a pistol in his hand when he realizes that he recognizes one of the voices as that of the Jondrette recently revealed as a Thénardier, and, while this is not the _most_ reassuring revelation – he still has little evidence that any of what she says is true, no matter how earnest she seemed – the conversation seems fairly harmless.

He sets down the pistol but remains wary as he steps out.

What he sees gives him pause.

The front door is wide open, and sunlight streams in through the gap.

Éponine – for Éponine it is – seems half-out of costume upon the ruined couch, with her hair falling from her hat and her legs tucked beneath her dress. She wiggles his fingers at him. "Morning, Monsieur," she greets, and resumes munching on a pastry.

Two little boys – neither could be any older than ten – occupy a corner, with the younger curled sleepily up into the older. He notes that their gazes immediately dart to the boy who is sitting on the arm of the couch.

Enjolras spends so much time in observing each of these details that he does not immediately recognize when her attention turns away from the conversation or the pastry until it is long since devoured.

When he looks, Éponine is watching him, her chin resting on her fist and a small smile tugging up the corner of her lips.

"I assume there is a reason for this intrusion, mademoiselle?" It comes out perhaps more brusque than intended, but her smile only widens.

"If you want to reach the people, you are going to have to _involve_ the people." She inclines her head towards the one close to her. "Gavroche helped."

Gavroche – the name is familiar. In his sleep-fogged mind it takes a moment to place it, but then he remembers – of course, the brother she has spoken of.

There is little physical resemblance between them beyond a general air of poor health that hangs about them faintly, but they carry themselves with the same self-assured sense.

"You know, of course," she continues, brushing powder-stained fingers off on her dirty dress, "your grand revolution will need to move beyond these streets. Paris isn't a bad start, though."

She is trying to goad him into something.

He shakes his head as if to himself and crosses the room, beginning to rummage through the papers scattered about here. Didn't he leave them in better condition? Perhaps not.

"What are you doing?" Her voice floats strangely from this angle.

"Looking for something." His answer is vague as he rifles through the stacks. He _knows_ he had that speech here, now where—? Ah, there it is.

He turns back then, just in time to see the youngest dart over to whisper something into Gavroche's ear; the gamin nods and touches two fingers to his hat and, like that, they are slipping away.

He holds her gaze as the gamins disappear. She is the first to react, unbending her legs from beneath her and asking, simply, "why?"

"To speak with Joly." Actually, he cannot quite recall if this answer is sufficient for her question. His mind is already racing with plans and things to say.

"Oh."

Éponine says nothing more, but trails along beside him. Though silent as she follows out the door, once they have takes only a few steps beyond, she speaks.

"I think you'd be pleased, monsieur. We've run your errands for you, and I think some may benefit yet."

But he does not address this, instead asking, "so why does this matter to _you_, mademoiselle? Why run _my_ errands, after all?"

He sees her eyeing him with a mouth pinched shut.

"Dunno," she says finally. "Maybe all your pretty words got to me."

This cannot be all, and she seems to know that he recognizes this, for she speaks again.

"You know," she says, spinning on her heel so that she now is walking backwards, "one mention of Thénardier to the police and that's the end of that. I've no reason to help them along in their search, so there's no cause to think I'd go back on you. Unless you think the bad fortune from having a woman aboard would sink your pretty ship faster than cannons?"

Éponine wears her own distrust plain across her face, looking ready to bolt at any second.

She avoids the gazes of those they pass and steps aside to walk in shadows when she can; she seems now, in no small part, to be what they are fighting for, showing the fearful tendencies she has learned, that they are trying so hard to prevent

"I think, if Bossuet has not brought her down…" Enjolras watches her face carefully to see the effect his words have, "then taking on only one certainly won't hurt."

She smiles, and it is like the sun.

* * *

A/N: According to one source I found, the price Fantine sold her hair for – 10 francs – would be equivalent to approximately $35 USD, currently.  
(Wow gosh I had so much trouble with this one sorry)


	17. Afternoon

Éponine is sitting against the wall, one leg drawn up to support the book she is currently bowed over, and leaning in closely enough that her hair obscures her face and the way her teeth are clamped firmly over lower lip in concentration.

Occasionally she will stop to contemplate some feature, and run her thumb over one part or another, smudging out charcoal lines and writing them in clearer.

She is focused so intently on the sketch that she barely notices the talk around her. Éponine is curious, and yet, she does not _want_ to be distracted from this task.

To say that Joly was surprised to see her is an understatement, but she cannot put words to the mix of emotions that crossed his face when she peered out from behind Enjolras.

(She wonders, briefly, whether her disguise was so poor to gain her near-instant recognition, or whether she naturally resembles the gamin she pretended to be.)

She wants to prove herself, to never inspire those looks that inspire such flashes of guilt.

So she acts the part of the whirlwind, with a deluge of rapid questions, requests for something to write on and with, remarks on how he seems to be in good health (she has learned never to insinuate the opposite with him), and, generally, avoiding the issue entirely, and that is how she comes to be sitting here, folded up with her thin notebook.

The book is not her own, but Joly's. It is blank, creamy paper beneath her fingers without question of repayment, and she makes a note to replace it for him, though she will certainly not be able to find one of this quality for him.

Trust is hard to come by for a gamine. It's natural, really – no one to inspire it, no one worthy of it.

But she thinks she trusts them.

So she sketches Paris in grays and blacks, sections of clearly-defined streets fading to boxes when it comes to the larger houses, the likes of which she has only entered in the company of the Patron-Minette, marking and remarking and trying not to pay attention to the conversation, trying not to still when Bossuet arrives, confusion at the sight of her plain without ever having to look up.

Instead she focuses on her work, smiling at another tale of misfortune cheerily conveyed before he slips easily into the discussion, and scratching in 'Montparnasse' along the line of a street.

And then she is finished.

It is barer here, but cleaner, most furniture save for a few crates traded in exchange for wallpaper that does not hang limp and faded. It creates a much more pleasant atmosphere, to be sure, but it means she cannot simply sit on a less rigid surface to wait for the end of their discussion – and their discussions run long.

So Éponine waits for the closest to a lull there is going to be, and she scurries closer to push the sketch towards them.

In the ensuing moment of quiet, she reaches to tap on a particular section, saying, "most of those who frequent this area are employed by some bourgeoisie or another. They don't take kindly to remarks that threaten their income."

She waits, and when she is not brushed aside, continues.

"Here–" A tap. "–they are too tired and too sick to listen to either side, but if action's to be taken, it's not a bad place to go after. And here–" Tap, tap, tap. " –they are neither too worn-down or loyal, and would likely be where your speeches would reach willing ears."

Bossuet is the first to speak. "Well, if it keeps us from another incident like the _last _time–" It sparks a discussion before he has finished this last syllable.

When Enjolras tosses her a look she cannot quite read, she fixes him with a smile and perches on the edge of a crate, settling in for the debates.

(She has fought for everything, clawed her way from the gutter and shed layers of argot, learned to steal and learned what to say to keep herself from most schemes, and it is hard to imagine a life where this could have been any other way, but sometimes she remembers lovely dolls, and curtseying to strangers, compliments and being cooed over, and she thinks she would have liked this life. It would have been nice to be… nice.

Perhaps she never grew into this other Éponine, but she thinks it might be possible for someone else to, with efforts like these.

And perhaps she might even take on a shadow of that girl she might have been, and become something _more_.

She will prove herself – she will be of worth – even if she must dredge up every inkling of ill-gained knowledge she possesses to do it.)

* * *

A/N: If anything seems particularly muddled throughout this, it is likely my clumsy attempts to incorporate bits of the Brick into it – which I have never fully read.  
(I don't know where exactly I'm going with this anymore, hence the snail pace and lack of apparent plot. Still contemplating what would constitute a suitably impressive climax [or, how I would get to one] while matching the ending I have in mind, would leave enough time for romance to develop more fully without dragging beyond what could be considered realistic, and would not seem jarring. It is slow going.)  
[Additionally, feedback regarding how in-character dialogue is always appreciated by my paranoid mind.]


	18. Night

Combeferre has a way with words, it's true, but there are flaws to this plan – or, at least, _she_ sees flaws. And there is the conflict.

"Have you ever been so hungry you would do _anything_ to stop the gnawing pain of it?

There is very little true anger to her words, or to his – they speak with an edge of exasperation to their voices, and lowly, not wanting to draw attention away from the picture Combeferre paints of a better world.

"That is _exactly_ why this revolution is necessary," is his response, quiet and powerful, "to bring an end to their suffering."

She shakes her head, "they are – are – _tired_ of this pain. You can't ask all this of them, can't speak of uprisings when pain is the only thing they really want to forget. They – don't care about anything beside it, they would be _numb_ before they let themselves go through that, these words will not convince them!"

"Then perhaps these will."

But – no, she does not like that look of determination, and it only takes a moment for her to see why, because now he is striding forward into view, taking his place beside Combeferre.

She suppresses a groan and watches in what feels like morbid fascination. There is no way this can end well.

…and yet, regardless of how it ends, the beginning is something to behold. When he speaks, they _listen_. There is an inimitable air about him that's hard to place, but difficult to turn away from.

Combeferre may paint the picture, but it is only groundwork in comparison; Enjolras brings the plans to live in such vivid detail she finds herself waiting with bated breath for the next phrase along with the rest of them.

In fact, Éponine might gladly have conceded some small defeat – getting them to listen is not the same as convincing them to take up arms, to turn their streets into barricades and give their lives for the cause, but it could be the first step in the march of their revolution – if there hadn't been some loyalist in the crowd.

Who it was, exactly, she'll never know, but she recognizes the distinctive tension that precedes the appearance of law enforcement, and she is moving forward even before they appear.

Fortunately, most of those that share the room have reason to fear this appearance for one reason or another, and so her call to the two Amis – "les cognes, les cognes!" – is not as noticed as it could have been.

Combeferre is in a better position to run, having stepped down and aside to give Enjolras the spotlight, and if she weren't suppressing panic she might have laughed at how he manages to simply dodge past the ones at the door and disappear from sight.

Éponine reaches for Enjolras' sleeve and tugs him down. "Come on," she says, "we'll go out through the alleys."

Éponine has to dig her elbow into someone's stomach to be let past, but then, it only takes a moment to slip out the side door and into open air.

A right turn or a left. One is darkened, and the other is in the direction the police came from.

Éponine hesitates – a known exit with higher risks, or a path to nowhere with less chances of stumbling into someone? – and Enjolras takes the lead.

They take the path to the right, which winds on for a while.

"–out and to the docks," she catches, but little else, because the next turn leads so a sight that makes her still.

It's a dead end.

Back the way they came? One of those other turns must lead to an opening, but now, now she can hear voices, and they are growing clearer.

"Alright," she breathes, "alright." And then she moves. She pushes down her cap upon his head, obscuring as much of his bright curls as possible.

"They don't know what you look like – they can't beyond vague descriptions," she hisses out, "so follow my lead."

It only takes a few steps for her back to hit the wall. To his credit, he understands what she is getting at and does not resist when she urges him forward, but he does not seem to know what to do from there.

"Oh, honestly," she mutters, a spark of amusement flaring up despite herself.

His arms hand limply at his sides, and so she pulls his hands to her hips. One of her own rests on his back – it would look more convincing to tangle her fingers in his hair, but that risks making him more noticeable.

"Just hold on tight, bourgeois boy," she murmurs, "and pretend you want to be here."

And she cups her hand around his neck and drags his head down.

They are close, close enough for his forehead to rest against hers, close enough that their breaths mingle, close enough that she could move this from the appearance of intimacy to the real thing if she only tilted her face up and stood taller, but it's a thought that registers dimly within her mind, already dull with the fear that they will be caught, discovered, that Les Madelonettes would be kind in comparison to the fate that could await her –

"Who's there?"

Her fingers twitch at his neck and her breath hitches.

There is a pause, long enough that her heart beat begins to thud in her ears. She hears a faint noise of disgust, and then, "it's just some whore."

She would sag in relief if it wouldn't give them away.

Someone else clicks their tongue, and then speaks. "Right then, you lot, clear out!"

Running is suspicious, always too suspicions, so she drops her hold and leads him by the hand, sauntering past the two police and nodding excessively and mock-drunkenly when one adds, "and don't let me catch you around here again, you hear?"

She piles on more of an accent and forces out a giggle. "Wouldn't dream of it, lovelies."

When they are down the street and out of sight, she lets her hand drop from his and clutches at the fabric of her skirt instead.

Several minutes pass like this, neither speaking, until he breaks the silence.

"I think perhaps this signals the end to public speeches," he says.

His eyes dart to her, and at his side, Éponine can only agree.

* * *

A/N: From what I could find, prostitution in France was _not_ illegal. Standing in public places in the hopes of soliciting customers was, but not the act itself.  
And fear not – the Barricade Boys should be returning to their _Barricade_ shortly.  
Thank you so, so much for all the wonderful input! I originally intended this to just be a silly little AU – I didn't even know where this was going to go. And… wow, I mean, this is just sort of unbelievable! I can only hope I don't disappoint, really.  
(And oh gosh never, never apologize for a long review, they are absolutely wonderful!)


	19. A Return

That feeling of uneasiness stays with Éponine long after the event, follows her back all the way to the docks, to the boarding of the _Barricade_, and up to the point where she gives a weak little wave to the Amis on deck – until Bahorel crosses the deck in only a few long strides and sweeps her into a hug.

And it is as if the floodgates have been opened, with the way she is suddenly surrounded, and with so many questions directed to her.

Some of her worry was misplaced, it seems, as those who knew – Grantaire and Courfeyrac, Combeferre, Joly, and Bossuet, each – explained what they could of the situation (that they had faith in her to assume she would be found trustworthy enough to return and the strange warming effect this has on her is something to be examined later), and so she finds she has an easier time of it, of the explanations and shamed apologies alike.

There is, still, much that is repeated.

However, they _do_ need to cast off, and quickly, too, so there is not enough time for all the questions they seem to have – or so she thinks.

In between her steadying and securing and scurrying about to ensure that everything is doing well, she invariably finds herself assisting _someone_, and that someone is, she finds, always ready to talk.

Bahorel is _entirely_ sure of their ability to deal with the _Sentinel_ – or any other threat that faces them for that matter, he states, and she laughs and finds it hard to argue.

Grantaire is all steady wit and gentle jibes, and she nearly stumbles in her steps from so much laughter.

Courfeyrac seems hesitant, at first, though his comments are no more few than those from the other Amis – their center, as she has heard them call him, for how easily he connects to people, and she has caused him harm through this. By the time she has left his side, however, this is long forgotten – a comment cut through the doubt, and from there, camaraderie unbound.

Jehan asks her questions about Marius and Cosette, about meeting and memories, and when he repeats small details in order to better understand some aspect, she sounds like a romantic heroine. He makes her sound this way, sound as though the things she suffered through made her into something more, something better, gold left over in the ashes, burned clean and pure, and if she fools herself for a moment into thinking this is so, what harm is there in it?

Joly seems to feel horror on her behalf for the conditions she lived in (though Bossuet suggests it is mostly for how _unsanitary_ they were, which elicits a burst of laughter from her and a look from Joly that is likely meant to be stern but is really just fond);.

Feuilly's questions come with the understanding of one who has come from the gutters, and she thinks that maybe, maybe, _she_ can rise up, too.

With Combeferre, she receives encouragement through a quiet nature, and she sheds her hesitance slowly, and begins to think not all she says is to be regretted.

She gets sympathy, but not pity; none play at understanding, exactly, only express a desire for it; and Éponine is caught up in the force of their vivacity.

Her path does not cross often enough with Enjolras' to exchange talk, but she sees him, and with the wind in his hair he looks a little bit reckless – a little bit like the boy she thinks he could have been if his shoulders were not weighed down with the potentials of a thousand suffering people, and if Apollo reaches more towards the sun he was born for, if Atlas shifts a little bit of his burden – then there is no harm in that, either.

By the end of it, by the time they have set sail and left the lights of the city behind them, when all she can see is the dim glow of the lanterns set by the stairs and the captain's cabin and the glimmer of unknown and unnamed stars above her; the wind around her surges through her hair and her clothes and carries her about as if she is dancing; she is so tired, and yet she is so happy that in her stupor, she would gladly agree to any task set before her.

She is _happy_ to sit in at the 'meeting' (outside Enjolras's cabin/meeting room instead of inside, those in attendance fluctuate with each passing minute, as there are still vital tasks to attend to and things that must be done, so what is said is thin in comparison to that which she normally hears from them, skeletons that have yet to grow flesh), even as her fingers ache around her pen and her eyelids grow steadily heavy.

When they separate, she must watch them go before she, too, stumbles down below to the room that is still set aside for her, for the fear that perhaps her good fortune is only imagined, but – no, now her cheeks hurt from her wide smile and the sheets beneath her fingers are rough and surely, surely too heavy to be conjurations of her mind.

There is an unspoken part of her that wonders if this is what it is like to be home.

* * *

**Notes**: Minor wall of text (which is unfortunate after a short chapter that has come so late) because… well, because I feel as though certain things need explaining. There's more, but these are the ones that leap to mind.  
As for the whole thing about Éponine's need to have a 'turning point' when it comes to wanting to help others – Éponine is not particularly altruistic, true. The line was meant to convey the sense that she thinks even if she had been given every chance, she still wouldn't have had any sort of perfect life, because she is Éponine, and she mucks things up for herself. The best she could have hoped for, in her mind, was something a little less terrible, which is what she wishes for someone else.  
The importance of the near-kiss versus an actual kiss: Éponine grew up thinking that physical intimacy was power. This is partly drawn from the Lovely Ladies' song, and the line "see them with their trousers off, they're never quite as grand" in particular. They're in a terrible situation, certainly, but they see how men they might once have viewed as 'grand' are really nothing of the sort, and seeing through this projection grants them a sort of power. I could go into more detain about this, but… well. Then, of course, the whole thing sort of sets in Éponine's mind the idea that Enjolras _is_ kissable, and is not necessarily a man of marble – and, to some extent, does the same for Enjolras.  
And there we have my inept attempt at explanations.  
(If you have any questions about why I included something, it is very possible that I will give you a paragraph of explanation, sorry. But, I mean, feel free to ask!)


	20. Plans

"It may be possible to lay low _afterwards_ –"  
"Possible? If we wish to avoid capture, it's a certainty—!"  
"But then, are we to spend a year hiding? What would the point of that be?"

It's a cacophony of conflicting opinions, and it is all Éponine can do to keep everything straight.

Feuilly speaks, then. "Didn't you say – earlier, that within Saint-Michel they feel as though they manage just fine without help…?"

This is directed to her, and she shakes her head. "You can need something and not have it and go on living, but there's no 'just fine' about it. They're hurting, that's for sure. It's the admitting that's the problem."

She receives a nod for this, and the conversation continues, but she is thinking of almost-mothers Azelma's age, stick-skinny and wailing, running door to door on doe legs when their newborn lay still, thinks of the cries that echo into the night as doors shut against them and they become no-longer-mothers; beggars done without food so long they become paper wisps, see-through and brittle, and remembers teeth sticking to thin lips as they let out peals of dry laughter; thinks of herself, who grew up without the affection she craved and into something hard and sharp, a weapon against every cruel word, but hollow inside, crumbling at a single delicate touch.

It's only when someone bangs a fist on a table – calling for attention to the subject rather than expressing anger – that she jolts out of her thoughts.

She frowns at herself and settles back further in her chair.

This is becoming a problem.

She is lost in thought too often – much too often. It's fortunate that she was not supposed to be taking notes today or she would be hopelessly lost.

Irritatingly enough, this trend seems to be recent, ever since her mind became plagued with thoughts of closeness and alleyways.

She supposes it's because she's not been in a situation like that – not one where a misstep could lead to incarceration or a beating, nor one where such closeness was required – for months, or, perhaps, because she's never seen anything close to cracks in the so-called marble man.

She has gone through bouts of this with Montparnasse and Marius, and so she attempts to shake these thoughts away for the moment and focus on the discussion, resolving to hang about a little longer in order to find a way to push the image from her head, by any means necessary.

(If she can push _this_ image from her head, why would she not be able to control the rest of her thoughts?)

It _is _a rather remarkable plan, she'll admit. Plundering valuable objects is all well and good on its own, but planning a raid on the _Diadem_ is something else.

The target is, specifically, a mirror – not just any mirror, but one commissioned by and for the express use of the king himself.

(Napoleon had his elephants; seems Louis-Philippe appeals more directly to his own vanity.)

It sends their message clearly, and they sail away with not insignificant profits.

It's just that it's… dangerous. Noticeable. And the last thing she wants right now is for them to be noticed.

And yet, as she has realized, she cannot dissuade them.

If she had, perhaps, stayed with them – revealed all slowly instead of running off and forcing a reveal, then she _might_ be closer to achieving that, but as much as she seems to be repairing their trust in her, it is certainly not something she wants to test.

So she must instead convince them to let her help.

With these two goals in mind, Éponine waits as the Amis gradually go on their separate ways, until it is only her and Enjolras.

Who, at the moment, seems entirely preoccupied with his own thoughts as he jots something down in the logbook before him, preoccupied enough that she is able to draw near to him before he notices.

She digs her nails into her palm for concentration and says, plainly, "you need me."

His eyes snap up to hers, and she is momentarily lost for words in the intensity of his gaze. It is likely for the best that she not ask what occupied his mind, then, though she will not apologize for interrupting them. '_Wasn't this supposed to take away from those thoughts?'_ She digs her nails in a little harder.

"On the raid," she clarifies. "You need my help. If everything is to go smoothly, you need all the help you can get."

There is a pause before he responds, during which he returns his focus to the logbook. "There was never any question of disallowing you."

There was, of course, but this response is as good as a 'yes.'

"Of course," she says, and it is the too-casual tone which makes him lay aside the pen with a sigh that is implied. "Permission won't do much good if I have only these to run around in." She gives her skirt a tug to demonstrate what she means.

"And why, exactly, is this necessary?" he asks dryly. "Your identity is no secret to us."

She clucks her tongue. "Now, m'sieur, you may be known across the coast, but Éponine Jondrette of Saint-Michel is still perfectly acceptable." A pause, and the she adds, "well, nearly. I've got the rest of it though, as a 'parting girt' from Cosette." She lifts her cap with a grin. Her hair is properly pinned up beneath – little chance of ruining her disguise should she take a tumble.

He frowns. "I don't remember you having those when you came aboard."

"They're small. Could put 'em anywhere and not notice," she says casually, but her grin widens. The statement is not meant to mean much – indeed, all she did was fasten them to the inside hem of her skirt, but it certainly sounds crafty.

"Hmm." She has little left to say, and he, sensing this, once more returns his attention to his markings. "…Combeferre tells me you left some clothes from a raid in the drawers; these have not been moved."

She grins again, but it is softer around the edges. "I'll do you proud, I will. Won't be one thing out of place when it comes time." '_And there,_' she thinks, as if she has triumphed over herself, '_all is normal as usual._'

At least, until she catches the hint of a smile on his face. It's gone as quickly as it appeared, but it's enough. '_…or not?_'

(Much to her frustration, she finds she is no more able to concentrate than she was before. As a matter of fact, the daydreams seem to creep in more frequently, if that is possible.

She will later be able to pinpoint this moment as the start of it, and all because she began to wonder if she could block out that memory with a new one.)

* * *

A/N: I… have… no idea if Louis-Philippe had any affinity for mirrors at all, but for the purposes of this, we're going with _yes_.  
This one is sort of… eh. Sorry about that.


	21. Setting

"They say the _Sentinel_ is forever in pursuit of her first target, a strange, white-sailed ship." Jehan's fingers twist her hair deftly as he talks, tugging firmly but never hard enough to hurt as he pulls tangles into a manageable braid.

Out of habit, Éponine shifts to sit straighter, though her attempts to look back at him are thwarted by a finger laid along her jaw and a murmured "be still."

So she asks her question facing forward, eyes cast up, watching the _Barricade's_ own rippling in the wind. "Aren't most ships white-sailed?"

"Yes," he responds, "but there is a certain ring to it." The whole thing sounds like something from a fairytale, is what it is.

She leans back, slowly so as not to jostle him. "I did wonder why there hadn't been any recent sightings."

Jehan sounds slightly distracted when he responds. "Mmh. Seems they're at it again."

He releases his hold on her hair and curls the tail of it around her neck for her to inspect. When she tosses a grin over her shoulder at him, he nods, and begins the process of pinning it up.

He has barely started on this when another speaks. "What are you talking about?"

Éponine does not have to look to know the voice belongs to Bossuet, but she does so anyway, and sees he is stifling a yawn as he approaches them.

"The _Sentinel_," she answers. "Are you alright?"

He blinks blearily as he nods, "couldn't sleep much. It's just my luck." Despite his words, there is no unhappiness in them. He treats his luck like a lady, he'd explained to her – she may often leave him, but she is never cruel to him.

In any case, he has watch duty tonight, the same as her; he will get no more sleep.

"What's the plan, if they catch up?" she wonders aloud. Jehan declares his work finished, and more stable than the mess she had it in earlier – he is kind enough not to call it a mess, but she knows it must have looked like one – and he hands her the worn cap, which she worries with her thumbs.

"Nothing," comes Bossuet's voice. "Flee, basically."

"And yet we are pursued," she murmurs, back still against the crate Jehan rests on, "and accept it as necessary. How noble."

Their captain is brave and bold to the end.

A thought strikes her – if he had seen her on the streets, would he have acted the part of the white knight to her, and would she have let him? – and then another, one more useful. An idea. "Is there anything planned for tonight?"

By this, they know 'anything' means meetings and the like.

"Nothing more than the usual," answers Jehan.

"I'll find someone to take over watch, then. If you like?"

A laugh from Bossuet. "I'd like nothing more."

She nods, and rests her chin on her knees.

The sound of boots ascending the stairs reaches her ears, and then a voice. "Might I request the presence of our dear, lovely 'Ponine?"

Grantaire.

Her bared teeth form a grin at the nickname as she hops up and there is, if it is possible, even more of a grin in his voice as he adds, "she is late for her lessons, and the lower decks have need of her backside."

"M'sieur R," she greets, mock-demurely, as she slides past, "I think it is _your_ backside that will be on the floor. After all, if you remember the last time – " It is an argument for the sake of it, and her voice is swallowed up.

She tips her hat to them as she descends.

* * *

A/N: (I'm sorry it's just  
there was Doctor Who  
and a holiday  
and hours of applications  
I'll make it up to you eventually but at least there's a post?)


	22. Stars

"You promised to pay me back."

Enjolras has, in fact, made no such promise – but she thinks he will not be so sure of this. And by the way his brow furrows at the words without him immediately discrediting them, this seems to be true.

"Besides," she continues, running a hand over the bookshelf and purposely angling away so he does not see her expression, "how will you ever relate to the common people if you won't even work as they do?"

From the corner of her eye, she sees him stiffen, and she stifles a laugh, but resolves to reveal it as a jest later. For now, it gains her his company without true complaint, and she can live with that.

He gives a short nod, and that is that.

* * *

Éponine is in such a good mood when it comes time to take her post that she is humming, murmuring a song she barely remembers with taps of her fingers to replace the words.

She did _not_ trounce Grantaire as she had so boasted – but she did get a few good hits in. He is still, clearly, the more experienced of them, but it's enough to show that she is learning. He may not say it, but the grin he gave at the end of their training said enough.

To add to that, dinner was surprisingly unburned – a fact which each of the Amis made certain to remark on. Remembering the look on Joly's face is enough to bring a smile to her face even now.

She settles on a stool (the crate used earlier has already been cut up to fuel the stove, as they have not a charcoal-burning one) which she sets between one set of stairs and the door to the captain's cabin, and waits.

Enjolras emerges soon after – having appeared only briefly to eat, and seeming distracted the whole way through – and goes to stand at the railings, as he did on that sleepless night that now seems so far in the past.

He is silent for a while, but from the sort of silence that surrounds them, she would guess that something weighs on his mind.

"I have taken watch before," he says at last.

Éponine recognizes the meaning – he thinks, through her comments before, that she is questioning his loyalty to his cause.

"I know it," she says, and it is almost gentle. Slowly, she stands, and comes to stand beside him. She watches the waves, barely visible, when she next speaks. "But you're all pensive in there, occupied with your books and letters and such."

He makes a noncommittal noise, and she cannot tell how this affects him. Another topic may meet with a more vocal response.

"What's the story, then?" She asks. Her tone does not belie the touch of nervousness she feels at letting these words loose – so possible to offend, for their meaning to be obscured. "How's a high-born, university-going boy like you get to be a pirate captain?"

Enjolras searches her face and, remembering earlier, she lets a smile pull up her lips to alert him to the nature of her words.

"A desire for change." She might have laughed if this had come from someone else – Montparnasse, for instance – but Enjolras lends the words a certain weight. She nods. He continues. "The disparities between the working class and the aristocracy – they cannot be allowed to remain as they are. I have seen this."

"What, a change of heart after you'd seen the likes of me…?" Éponine finishes with a grin. "And in all this time, you've not thought of settling down with some nice girl? Face like yours –" She has to break away to grin. "– _voice_ like yours, you could get any you set your mind to."

He frowns, and she winces inwardly. That was not the reaction she'd meant to provoke. But he answers anyway.

"Even _if_ I should be taken by the idea," he says carefully, "this is not a time for peaceful living. There is too much to be done, and there is no time for those… distractions."

How interesting. She prods a little more, hoping to be further enlightened. "So you think, what, after your battle is fought–?"

"You believe it will only take the one?" And this startles a laugh from her.

Of course, this soon fades, as he asks, "and you, mademoiselle?"

She snorts, and she'd leave it at that un_lady_like sound if she could, but he looks… curious.

Éponine fixes her gaze on the stars above. "Didn't have much to give when it came time to settling," she says by way of explanation. "And never had the inclination. Never… found someone worth settling with, 'less I was settling _for_."

"Except Monsieur Pontmercy." She's not sure if anyone else could say this with so little intent to mock. From him, at least, it seems… genuine.

"Except Marius," she agrees softly.

She sees him glance at her from the corner of his eye, and she diverts her gaze to her hands.

"He was kind," she says at last. "He didn't mind the grime, or the clothes, didn't mind the way I talked or the missing teeth. What girl wouldn't be a little taken in?"

Her father only made her sell the one, in the back, but it swelled up and made her feel as though every probe of her tongue would set her mouth on fire. It touched on some deeply-hidden well of affection in him, and when she lost another to decay, he paid for a replacement. It wasn't a good fit, but it suited her well enough until she was able to save up for a replacement.

Still, the whole affair very nearly killed her already shrinking self-confidence – and Marius had not given it a second thought.

"So no, monsieur, I have no suitors to call for me, and I very much doubt to see a change," she finishes, and pushes away from the railing, no longer wishing to pursue this subject.

She could not bear it if he offered his pity.

"I remember there's one that looks like a crown," she offers up suddenly, "Cassiopeia. Talked too much of her daughter, and she was thrown into the sky." Éponine folds her hands behind her back as she walks, slowly watching the glimmering lights above. "Can't see it now, though."

"You would do better to ask Combeferre about constellations," comes his voice from behind her. "My knowledge does not extend far beyond matters of our country, or her liberation."

She shrugs – and then an idea occurs to her. "Make one up, then," Éponine suggests. Like…" She searches the sky until she finds one that fits her interest. "There. The line of them, with a smaller one in the lead. Call him… Gavroche." She raises her arm to gesture in their direction. "Try as they might, the rest can never catch him. He's much too quick, see."

A glance shows her that she has his attention, and Éponine's mind races with possibilities. Her eyes alight on a pair, next. "Or those ones, there. Now, the one on the right, that one's bigger. Dimmer, though. His partner's much brighter. Maybe the big one's always trying to get the other in on his schemes, but she always slips away, a clever little thing. Now where would she run?"

He is turned fully towards her now, elbows on the railing as he leans back.

"Maybe… there? To that one, surrounded by stars on all sides. Is it a Captain, maybe? And what about the ones around? A doctor, a fan-maker, a philosopher–?" There is a laugh in his eyes, even if he does not voice it, and she finds herself grinning in response. "Certainly, they are interesting company, and brave."

He folds his arms. "And where would they go, these bright stars?"

"Oh, anywhere," she answers, spinning on her heels to take in more of the night sky, "so long as there's a place to be. She's been taken in by heroes, see, and heroes, they always have a job to do."

There's a smile tugging up one corner of his mouth, and the moment of silence that lapses between them is now comfortable.

Now, he shifts to look up, and points to something above them. "What about that one?"

That night – or early morning, really, but the sun is not visible so it is all the same to her – when Feuilly comes to relieve her of duty, she stumbles to bed and does not bother to lock or even fully close her door, does not fear who might come calling, and even from the impossible angle of sprawled across her bed, she imagines she can see stars.

* * *

A/N: Happy Easter, everybody! I start school again tomorrow, so I'm afraid updates might be… sporadic. But hey, we went three weeks with daily updates! _Hopefully_, I'll be able to keep that up, but…  
(And: you are all extremely lovely people, oh my goodness.)


	23. Something Completely Different

"Think you'll say yes, if he asks?"

Azelma is hunched beside him, her taller frame scrunched to the point where her brother's head stands taller than her own.

"I think maybe," she says, "if he asks."

Gavroche hums a note of acceptance. Her mother would not be so nonchalant, and Azelma appreciates the differences.

Which is why her mother does not know – _anything_ about it. Her mother would gasp and let her eyes bulge out dramatically and say "_oh, dear, isn't this wonderful? Someone calling after you after all these years!_"

(Her father would bleed the poor man completely dry, so that's out of the question right from the start.)

She hasn't told her mother much of anything, lately, only let the woman coo over her and fuss with her dirty tangles and talk about her _darling, dearest daughter_.

Mostly Azelma thinks she cannot tell her mother because, whatever the circumstances, she _is_ still her mother. Azelma has been pushed into unwanted situations before – she lets her thumb brush over the thin, spider web scars on her knuckles that have overtaken the skin there, simple marks left from class that cracked against the force of her small fist – but she will not be pushed and prodded when it comes to matters of the heart. And her mother would be… disappointed. Hurt.

She doesn't want that, just as she knows she could not accept a wedding she does not want.

If there is to be a wedding.

She is going to be absolutely certain of absolutely everything before she even _insinuates_ acceptance to the as-of-yet unasked question.

Helping along a revolution just because her older sister has been taken in by the ones behind it is probably not the best way to relieve some of the frustration the situation brings, but Azelma Thénardier is newly eighteen, and seems to be looking at the world through new eyes.

Specifically, those eyes which Gavroche seemed to possess when he dropped the surname Thénardier and became ruler of his own domain.

And –

She knows she is attracting looks for her limp hair and the darkness beneath her eyes, and she grimaces right back at any who dare to stare at her.

Once she knows she is no longer the object of attention as she was, as she shoves her hands into her threadbare pockets.

"Think 'Ponine knows what she's doing?"

"D'you?" is his response.

"Dunno," she says contemplatively, "but I hope so."

She lags a step behind him as they reach the street corner, and he stops to nudge her bony shoulder with his own. "Come on, 'zelma, you'll do fine."

Gavroche calls for the two that have trailed behind with a short cry of "Thomas! Alain!" and they are off.

Azelma looks at the pamphlets in her hands, looks over the crude, thin lettering. These are mostly for show, and she is not to give them to anyone who appears _too_ interested – it is, after all, unlikely that their efforts will garner genuine attention so soon, and she does not with to be hauled to Les Madelonettes for the words. Not until she has figured this out, at least.

She steps out so as to be easily in view, and sets about it.

"Listen here," she cries, her voice reedy as it floats over this morning's thin crowds, "listen here; I've news for you all. Pirates brave and daring, ready to defend you from the king who has abandoned you…"

* * *

A/N: Deciding against my sister's suggestion to post something completely random and deleting it after today, and my terrible early idea to just not post anything today, have something different but still relevant. Happy April Fool's Day, everybody! Hopefully it doesn't seem too strange!  
Also, I've been plotting out… well, the plot, almost to the end. It's possible we've not long to go! Then again, I meant for the 13th chapter to take place closer to the 8th, so who knows how long I'll drag this out.


	24. Thoughts

Even out of skirts and with hair bound, it is clear that Éponine is no boy. In fact, it is so obvious now that he wonders how they could have been fooled.

Admittedly, the rags she wears to become Jondrette _are_ loose and ill-fitting – and with the estimated interception date looming ever nearer, she is never long out of them – but there are moments when this is not so. She will angle her hip or fold her arms and the illusion is shattered.

Perhaps it is because she is not trying to put on a full disguise here – from what she has said, she _did_ fear discovery before, but she does not have such fears now.

And yet, she does not _act_ much like a lady. In fact, her actions are almost indistinguishable from those taken when she called herself Julien around them.

She has the unfortunate tendency to hunch into herself – curious, as he thinks appearing smaller would make her look like more of a victim than less – and she clings to patches of darkness in a way that may be unconscious.

There is clear evidence of rough living – how rough, exactly, is not completely clear, as she seems, at times, to be smoothing over details when she recounts her stories – upon her, but she speaks with less argot than he would have guessed.

"I wanted to impress Monsieur Marius," she confessed to him when he'd asked about it, and ducked her head. Her mannerisms become more noticeably more… well, _feminine_ isn't the right word exactly, but more _something_ whenever the topic of Pontmercy is brought up.

It's… somewhat exasperating, actually. She's much more productive when not on the subject, but, fortunately, it lasts less and less as time goes by.

(Or he is, out of necessity, getting better at knowing when the conversation will devolve into discussing details of _that_ particular aspect of her life. He doesn't really care which it is, as the effect is the same.)

She is bold, she is brash, and she is bright, when she cares to show it.

And, currently, she is perched on his desk.

On the paper that has now been pushed to the side, she has etched out a crude layout of the _Diadem_, or what she imagined the _Diadem_ to look like from his descriptions.

It's rough and smeared, but the picture itself was never the point. Éponine instead used it so speculate where they would be most likely to run into trouble, where they might find the mirror or other riches to profit from, and which areas should be avoided entirely, with his help.

Now, however, with that task finished, Éponine is looking over the plans for _after_, which means, currently, contact lists.

"Agnés," she says slowly, sounding out the name on the list, then looks up. "I know a better fence. Monsieur Badeaux. A little farther from the docks, but he's half-decent, and twice more than most you'll find. Could get you a better price, and quicker, but there's little chance he'll deal with someone dangerous."

"And you know this from experience?" Enjolras scratches out his last sentence. He wants to direct, yes, but this is all but saying "_monsieur, we would like to sell a mirror we have stolen from the king._" It's a bit much.

She shrugs skinny shoulders, then reflects, and adds to it. "Yeah. He'd never do business with the Patron-Minette up front, now with 'Parnasse, or with my father. They always sent me, instead. And he gave Azelma an extra sou whenever she came 'round to sell a little ribbon, though I can't imagine he'd ever be able to make anything off it." She nods to herself. "Badeaux is who you want."

"Parnasse?" He pauses in his writing, finding he has begun to replace his words with the ones she speaks, and decides to resume writing when there are less distractions.

She grimaces, which evokes mild amusement from him.

"Montparnasse was terrible," she says. "And charming with those who let him in close, so he could be terrible all over again. I didn't give him the chance," she adds.

"Mmh." Something in her phrasing reminds him of a possibility. He tries it out, letting the letters feather out onto the paper before nodding, and inking them darker. And there it is.

"There's that first draft, if you'd like." He is, in all honestly, the slightest bit curious to see what she thinks of it.

"Ah, let me see." She pulls the paper away with fingers that are delicate beneath thin scars and calluses and which, briefly, minutely, brush his.

Yes, there is no way to mistake her as anything less than a woman, now.

And it is causing him no end of frustration.

* * *

A/N: Dang, I'm just dragging this out, aren't I?


	25. Preparation & reconciliation of thoughts

She is still having troubling thoughts.

Not that they are altogether unpleasant, really, but they are distracting, and they are so very close to catching the _Diadem_. Slipping up there could be fatal.

Avoiding or ignoring is not an option, and not only because it seems an unsavory prospect. She would have nothing to stem the thoughts with.

And the trouble with Marius endured because she _allowed_ it. Harmless at first, and even helpful as a source of hope, she let her wishes buoy her until she was too far gone for the fall not to break her.

She hadn't let herself be fooled with Montparnasse – he didn't love her and he never would, even if he could be kind sometimes – and, being neither cynical nor optimistic about it… she was _fine_ in the end.

She might have been fine sooner if she'd come down from the clouds long enough to do the same with Marius.

(Éponine thinks she feels _almost_ the same as ever about him. He is no less kind, no less of any of what he was, and she would be happy to receive his attention, the same as before – but she has now been happier still. That feeling would perhaps fade in comparison. Recognizing this makes her feel weary, and worn, and somehow also lightened.)

It's a dream that gives her the final push.

It is similar to ones she's had before, but her imagined inamorato has not a sprinkling of freckles but golden curls, and leaves her to wake flushed not by being something unrepeatable, but from how – unfamiliarly _tender_ it had been

So the next time those thoughts strike her – she takes it. Looks it over. Turns upside down and shakes it, pulls it inside out and puts it back together.

There is admiration there, naturally, mixed in with exasperation that may be a touch fond now, and there is a certain fascination, curiosity arising and dredging up questions (_how did the marble man change flesh to solid stone, become resolute in these shining ideals, and is there still flesh beneath?_) even as there are some she hopes she never sees the answer to (_how much weight can Atlas bear before he buckles?_).

Simple – and somehow this combination of commonplace emotions (Éponine has held respect for few individuals through a short life stretched too long, but not so few that the feeling is new, or able to be mistaken for another) mixes to form something that is so utterly _else_ that she doesn't know what to do with it now it's there.

Even going by the symptoms, she cannot put a name to it and be assured that she is right, because it is – it _must_ be – too slow, too gradual to fit against what she has always imagined. And she's afraid that naming it will assuredly make history repeat.

It's nothing right now – a seed, an inkling of an idea, kindling to a fire that could be, but she is finally, finally happy, and she _will not_ jeopardize that. She won't.

So Éponine settles on the solution of pushing aside the thoughts and redoubling her efforts to prepare.

She is certainly able to stand his presence, able to interact and even be close to without anything that is _too_ out of the ordinary happening. (It is possible she is a little more aggressive with proving this to herself than is necessary, but she thinks he doesn't notice.)

If she recognizes that what she felt with Marius was built on false hopes and lovely, empty misconceptions, she will not fall to the same mistakes again.

And she is… fine.

As fine as she can be on this matter, at least.

Without a connection to shore, they have no way of knowing whether the _Sentinel_ remains a distant threat or whether she looms ever nearer.

With this, and with the worries of all that can go wrong, she walks on feet that feel as though the ship beneath is trembling. So she occupies herself, and the others do the same.

Feuilly paints a swathe of colors in curls and spirals; dark ink is given meaning and weight through his brush.

Courfeyrac eases worries; try as she might, she cannot see that he is affected by fears of what is ahead, and in his presence she is even inclined to forget some of her own. For this, she is grateful.

Grantaire takes to drinking more, and she knows that _he_ at least is troubled. She draws him out as best she can with jibes, and he seems to fare better when he is going through steps with her and clashing swords than not.

She sees them prepare, too.

Bahorel is a whirlwind, favoring force over finesse, and a single blow looks enough to do significant damage.

Jehan, on the other hand, practically exudes grace. Each of his hits mean something, tailored to force his opponent to react a certain way.

She does not see Joly in action, but he gives her advice on how to step and where to strike, medical knowledge gaining a use she hadn't thought of before.

Poor Bossuet simply favors a defensive stance, but at least it seems to work for him – and his luck, as it turns out, brings injury to him as well as to an opponent. She only practices once with him, but a strike on her part that brought him off balance managed to send her stumbling back, and she ends up with bruises on her elbows.

Combeferre can wield dual pistols just as easily as one – she learns this from watching him clean them and bringing her curiosity to the others. He declines a demonstration on the grounds that they need all the ammunition they can get, and she sobers at the reminder.

And she gets a chance to see Enjolras in action.

When he has written and planned to the point it seems there is nothing left to write, even he must find some outlet to his worries. Sword fighting does not seem to be the usual activity of choice, but he does acquiesce.

She has never seen her in battle and does not know how to react, and he disarms her easily in the end, but she holds out for a fair bit of time, and she is pleased when he tells her so. She concedes easily, glad of the chance to observe.

They – all of them – balance each other, and they are – something to marvel at, something solid, something that must surely remain when all the rest fades to dust and history books. Maybe, with them, she is, too. She must only keep them safe throughout this adventure – for she feels that she must, in a way, be a protectorate against the world she once belonged to – and she will find out.

And she will find out soon.

* * *

A/N: I felt really, really guilty about not updating yesterday. Bleh. On the bright side, it's better than what it would have been had I tried to write it in an hour. Much more so, if it hasn't come out all jumbled.  
An introspective chapter is necessary – well, to show changes, naturally, but also because I'm not sure we'll have time for another soon.  
I guess this might change to T at some point, too, from a conflicting combination of romance and fighting. (War, man. Battles.)  
[Also, I just came home to find that my Enjonine shirt arrived, and it is _awesome_. =w=]


	26. A Heist

Soon, they will be at the side of the gleaming _Diadem_, and Bahorel, at the helm, guides them ever closer.

The sun has slipped below the horizon, and even in these fading rays of light, her lettering curls elegantly across her side.

Partial darkness makes those few on deck wary of their approach, but the flag that waves above the, speaking of their homeland, keeps them from shouting down their suspicions. It's a simple gesture, but they will not have to trouble with even these attempts to hide their intentions – and as far as the crew of the _Diadem_ knows, there is nothing really threatening about the behavior of the _Barricade_ (how that sobriquet caught on, let alone persisted enough that even they call it this, he'll never know), only odd.

At his elbow, Éponine is fairly trembling with energy, and even with her face shaded by the cap pushed low atop her head, he can see the edge of a wide grin.

If this stage goes well, she will be rushing forward soon to set down boarding planks.

This, she had announced, and immediately drawn back and into herself as if daring him to challenge her.

He, of course, had no intentions of challenging her, and she had paused to let her anger deflate before poking through stacks of papers to sate her curiosity – no less distracting, but at least not _attempting_ to be so.

And they will know soon, for, at this moment, someone on deck begins to call out to them – "ahoy there! Are you in need of any–?" – it begins.

Something – known to them, of course, but indistinguishable from anything else to those on the _Diadem_ – is tossed to the deck – and the wind, whipping around them, ensures that the fire sparks and spreads.

The urge to control the swell of a fire in any place is strong, but here, on an enormous, floating fuel source for the flickering flames, the urge is overwhelming – and, as far as distractions go, it is certainly effective.

Éponine darts away and, like that, has bridged the gap, with others matching her movements and beginning as well.

Boarding hooks are thrown and secured, the boards themselves are set down, and there is a dash to the _Diadem_.

Few are prepared enough to actually clash swords – most are taken care if in a way that leaves bruises that will certainly be painful come morning, but which merely incapacitate for now – and the appearance of his pistol makes the two who were, quickly throw them down. These are dealt with in the same way as the others.

It's dishonorable, but safer.

His friends, around him, grin, out of breath and proud.

Quietly – they have not alerted the rest of the crew, and they will not do so now, if they can help it – plans are gone over, and he descends the stairs quickly, Combeferre and Courfeyrac following directly behind.

He places himself first in the line of sight, even if he will not admit it, for who else would he allow to fall, should he make a mistake? No, it must be he that edges to the bottom of the stairs, hearing the noise just around the corner. If their prize is to be found, it will be within.

He motions back to them to have their weapons at the ready, and steps out.

Across the ship, Éponine creeps quietly into the kitchens.

They are a brave and dashing crew, these _Diadem_ lot, with their heads filled up with loyalty to the crown – and little experience. Even her school-boys overtake them easily, she muses, as the crew above seemed almost _baffled_ to be overtaken.

It's enough to laugh at, if she weren't on edge with worry.

Unfortunately, all her wariness does not appear to be enough, here.

She feels the impact, first, weight pushing her down and back, and then pain, blossoming across her back.

She lets herself fall – far easier to go with the current than against it, especially when doing otherwise would hurt so much – and scrambles back and away from the crewmember she has apparently managed to miss, who is wielding an old-looking _chair_ of all things, and who is going in for another swing.

She manages to lift her sword and deflect it, but she is at a terrible angle, and instead of knocking it from his hands, all she manages to do is make her own weapon bounce off of his; a leg breaks off and splinters into a jagged point, and this he drives into her shoulder before she can move back.

She does not scream. This is partly because of the reflex, and partly because she _cannot_ – all her throat manages to produce is a strangled, high-pitched noise of pain.

He has managed to hit the arm that carries her sword, and so she manages to drop it as her fingers spasm. If she cannot manage to retaliate –

But her problem is solved with a loud _clunk_.

As the man falls, there is Grantaire, holding a bottle of wine likely lifted from this very kitchen.

Gracious words of concern and gratitude are not exactly their way. So she eases herself forward and says, "I must have been doing poorly, for you to risk a thing like that."

He quirks an eyebrow and his lips quirk up as he offers her an arm. Her fingers wrap around his elbow, and she does not pretend to hide her wince as he helps to pull her up.

Transporting the mirror in a smaller ship would help to avoid detection, and to make the ship less of a target, but when it is known for what it is – well, she thinks there cannot be so many aboard that remain to fight back.

This she confirms when they meet with no trouble going below, and when they see a few trussed up, and the mirror in plain sight.

For some reason, she imagined it would be alone in the middle of a room, guarded on all sides, but this is not so. Instead, it looks almost crammed in, this delicate, gilded thing, between ill-used crates and boxes.

Enjolras looks resplendent in his triumph (though this is not exactly what she thinks, for she does not yet have those words to think in), and even for her own small part, she feels satisfied.

Somehow, he notes her wound. It is painful, true, but still she frowns when he asks Grantaire's assistance in transporting the mirror and not hers.

But she cannot be unhappy for long.

They have been successful, no one was seriously wounded – she, of course, is excluded from this count, and it's not so bad anyway – and what a story this will make.

* * *

A/N: I'm really paranoid with these lately. I've _sort of_ plotted this out to the end, but there's one part that's just… _bothering_ me. Too much rising-falling-rising-falling, and it seems poor writing – but it's necessary if I can't convey certain points early enough. Thus, writing this was painful and slow. Bluh. Feedback is nice. Feedback already received has been nice. I'll… try to sort out the plot. Sorry it took so long. (Not even sure I like it anyway bluhhh.)


	27. Wounds

They depart with less good cheer than hoped, more than feared, and still with a tinge of worry.

Wounds were not exactly _expected_, but though their possibility was expected, it's evident the Amis cannot be entirely satisfied with the outcome. Even still, there's a growing sense of pleasure born of the pride of success, one that she shares as she watches the _Diadem_ fade from view.

The sky is losing the last traces of azure and rapidly fading to indigos and ultramarines, and she thinks she has enough time to ask Jehan about that particular line from the book of poetry – left behind after the flight attempted by she and Cosette – that he recommended, and which she cannot make heads or tails of, or to spar with Grantaire, if her shoulder scabs over quickly enough, when a hand is laid against the uninjured one. Even there, and with fairly minor pressure, it makes her jump from the sudden pain that crisscrosses across her back.

"Éponine."

She looks into the face of their captain as she turns. He appears tired, and certainly less jubilant that the others, and she sees why as he inclines his head to her shoulder. "You need to take care of that."

"I am perfectly well, you will see," she responds, "and there is no need to worry." This is undermined by an involuntary wince as she finishes her words with an attempt at a shrug, out of reflex.

He raises an eyebrow and gives her a very pointed look, and her mouth turns down. "Your definition of 'perfectly well' and mine appear very different." She begins to shake her head, but he takes a step, and as he does not remove her hand, she is urged to follow. "Joly can see to it."

"No, monsieur, I do _not_ – do _not_ need the help," she argues. Her protests grow in both volume and ferocity when he actually angles them to intercept Joly, deep in conversation with Courfeyrac and Bossuet, and she realizes he's serious.

He does not believe her capable of dealing with it on her own.

He thinks her _weak_.

But despite her insistence, he will not give, and this is how she now finds herself perched on a table before Joly, with only her bindings to cover her.

She is too angry to be embarrassed by this breach of modesty, if she would have even cared under more _normal _circumstances – honestly, she's not sure.

There is wine, and little else, to numb the pain if she would accept it, but she will not.

She straightens her back and curls her fingers around the edge of the table and says, "I think you will find I do just well without the help, monsieur."

Joly, thankfully, does not argue with this stubborn statement.

He plucks splinters with practiced hands, pulling out bits of wood broken off in the wound with minimal pain. He dabs at the edges with wet squares of cloth, dampened and redampened in a bowl of water set nearby. Occasionally, he will let it drip down in order to clear it out, and ensure he is not pulling at skin instead of obstructions.

Enjolras remains, and she holds her gaze throughout this. If he thinks her unable to bear it, she will show him otherwise.

Her grip tightens occasionally, but it's nothing she can't handle; it is necessary, and she will hurt far worse later on, and for far longer, if she does not subject herself to this now. This, at least, she would have done on her own. It's when Joly runs a thread through the skin, knitting together the flesh, that she is momentarily unable to remain in silence.

Her response is a high, brief note of pain, and with her gaze still locked on Enjolras, she sees his jaw tighten.

When it is finished and her shoulder is loosely bound, he leaves with a nod and without another word, and she is left to hop from the table and give Joly her own thanks.

She follows along after him once she sees that it is dark enough to require the use of lanterns, and suggests helping prepare food – a repayment of sorts.

He gives her simple tasks, seeming grateful for the help, and so she is free to be lost in her thoughts. She tries to conjure up the words she will say, mixtures of explanations and accusations, and falls short each time.

When all is finished, she steals away only long enough to slip on a chemise, tying its ruined top around her chest – still bound, in the event that it should slip – rather than her shoulders, and calling those she sees on the way back to gather.

She is not quite so distracted as to refrain from eating – a dangerous habit to assume, she learned early to avoid it – but enough that she is a poor conversational partner. This is made worse when, throughout the meal, Enjolras is the only one of the Amis who fails to make an appearance.

So, when she emerges from her thoughts, from trying to puzzle out what she could done for him to think she needed protecting – it really wasn't _that_ terrible of a mistake, was it? She'd mucked plans up worse before – and finds herself nearly alone, she offers both to take a portion to him and to do the cleaning up.

Joly looks about ready to drop from exhaustion. She knows he has been on his feet for the entirety of the day in preparation, and, even after the _Diadem_, for the entirety of the night; he has been checking over those he can, and has still worried over any injuries he may have missed.

Something to do to show she does not need to be coddled, not by anyone, eases a bit of her frustration, but her walk is still clipped from the kitchens to the captain's cabin.

But when she opens the door, tray balanced on her hip, Enjolras is asleep, his head cradled by scattered papers, and a curl dangerously close to bobbing into an inkwell with each exhalation.

Her exasperation is pierced by a growing sense of fond amusement. She sets the tray to the side atop some papers (no way to avoid that here) as she wonders at how to rouse him.

"Monsieur," she murmurs, and then, when this receives no response, "awake, _mon capitaine_," This, too, does not succeed, nor does nudging his chair or lightly shaking his shoulder.

She huffs and, still slightly frustrated, hops up to sit on the edge of his desk – an action first taken simply to test the waters of what he would allow, and repeated the many times after because it a surprisingly comfortable position – and, hesitating only a short moment at the proximity reaches to tugs on a curl gently, but enough to, hopefully, be felt.

This, at last, produces a response, and he eases back into consciousness.

Pleased, she beams brightly at him when he raises his head. "Ah, now that's done it."

"Éponine?" His voice still contains a hint of sleep, and she hums her assent. "How long have I–?"

"Long enough that everything's cold now." She inclines her head to the tray, and he rubs at the bridge of his nose. "Though, really, you _should_ eat."

He nods, but makes no move towards it, instead asking, "how is your shoulder?"

She crosses her arms. "Fine. And that was unnecessary." She doesn't have to forgive _entirely_.

She reaches over to pluck his distinctive red jacket from the back of his chair, toying with the seams as a way to avoid his gaze for a moment as she decides whether she is angry still. She is not, she decides finally, beginning, "but thank you, I suppose. I've been through worse, but I –"

And she cuts off.

When he realizes her silence – and it takes her a moment – he lifts his hands to the sight of her hands wrapped deeply in the fabric of his distinctive red jacket.

"How did it happen, monsieur?" she asks quietly.

There is anger building, anger out of distrust not of her own strength but at what is seeming like his desire to cover up weaknesses. She indicates an area of the coat where the fabric is abruptly parted and faintly colored in tones of rust.

Now that she knows to look, she takes note of what she missed before, and sees that there is indeed a ragged line on his shirt town through, and that seems faintly damp, at that. She frowns. "You are bleeding still, monsieur." She places a hand on her hip, surveying him. "Didn't you check it over properly when you were fixing yourself up?" And then her frown deepens. "_Did_ you even fix yourself up?"

Éponine has her answer in the way he runs a hand tiredly through his curls rather than speaks.

She is scowling now. "You would have me coddled while you suffered?" She tosses the coat aside, uncaring of whether it falls to the floor or finds somewhere better to rest. "_I _can bear it just as well, you know, and you – you shouldn't – you shouldn't –" She stops there, unsure of where to continue, or even of why, exactly, she is this angry. It's something to be upset about, to be sure, but to this extent?

Of course, even if this wound is not life-threatening, it can have lingering, damaging effects if not taken care of.

He frowns, leaning back from the table, an argument in his eyes before it is in his voice. "Éponine, I am–"

"Fine? Your definition of 'fine' and mine seem to be very different, then," she snaps. "No, if you are hurt, then I will go and get–" She pauses. She cannot, in any semblance of good conscience, go to wake Joly, and yet she cannot let Enjolras just continue to bleed, and as she thinks of her options, she comes to a decision.

Unfortunately, Enjolras is unaware of this. He folds his arms, and lifts an eyebrow, and she has the distinct feeling she is now supposed to be embarrassed about the whole thing. "It's minor; _nothing_ to worry about."

"_Enjolras_." It's the first time she has addressed him as such, and it startles him, at least enough to give him pause – it startles her, too, but she presses on.

"If you will accept anyone else's help, then – then – then _I'll_ do it for you."

She places her hands on her hips, and hopes that her tone shows she will brook no arguments – or, at least, will argue back just as vehemently. "Now, you hold on just another moment, monsieur, and I'll be right back, I will."

And with that, she is out the door, thinking back to earlier as she looks to find something suitable.

He is leaning against the desk, arms folded, when she returns, and she loops around the desk to stand before him. She purses her lips and, after a moment of deliberation, directs him to sit once more.

"Shouldn't take but a moment," she says, as she settles back on the desk, bowl of water placed carefully at her side, though close enough to actually reach him.

She dabs the cloth in the water, but stops, hovering it just above the wound – wordlessly he tugs up his shirt to allow this – and asks quietly, sending a look up, "how _did_ this happen?"

"They were armed," he says simply, face turned away. She catches the meaning in his voice: _'I should not have allowed myself to be caught unaware_.'

She can imagine it now, then. The cut is shallow at his side, but less so as it winds up his stomach. He would have turned in response, and unconsciously shifted to a position that allowed the blade to travel deeper.

She takes idle note of a few, faint freckles as she works, fingers moving slowly, gently, carefully so as not to cause undue pain.

"It's not terribly bad," she comments as she dabs away. Her voice sharpens, even if only slightly. "Still not good to let it sit."

"Which is _not_ what you wished for yours?"

"I would've done the same for mine," she answers cheerily, "even if it didn't need to be stitched up."

She dips the cloth in the bowl, and watches as the water gains a tinge of pink.

Éponine moves closer as she goes, out of necessity. It does not bother her – in fact, she barely even takes note of it – until she reaches the point where the gash turns shallow again and happens to glance up.

She should not have.

For when she does, her eyes meet his, half-lidded and fairly burning with _something_, and she feels captured, or captivated, or – or any number of words that escape her.

He is something almost unearthly in his sort of beauty, his strength made not from assumptions and, but from quiet confidence, conviction, honesty, and her breath catches in her throat.

Éponine thinks, almost absently, that they are so close, it wouldn't take but the slightest of movements to be rid of even this slight distance. If she would only lean in and give a little push, she would have him for a moment, a moment she has never had, and perhaps another more – despite herself, despite her doubts, she does not think him one to chase after the first woman he laid eyes on once they reach port, nor the second, nor the third – would he chase after her?

And then she blinks violently, startled at herself. Where had _that_ thought come from?

She draws back abruptly, nearly unbalancing herself, and casts her eyes to the floor when she speaks. "Your wounds are mended, monsieur." And sparks not fully buried, embers below the surface incite her to add, "take care not to do anything to make me re-mend them."

And with that, she slips away, unable to do much more than nod to Combeferre on watch, fearing what she would say if she chanced to speak.

That night, Éponine dreams of swirls, of ideas curling past her too quickly to figure them out, swirling softly around her until she cannot tell whether she wants them there or not, wisps fading away into patterns of raindrops, into loopy lettering, into golden curls.

* * *

A/N: So… yes. This has been… a chapter. Ha ha. Ha. …leave me alone to wallow.  
(But hey look continuity works out pretty well for me with Joly and I am still not proud of this)


	28. Confidants

'_Can people really fall in love so fast?_'

It's a question Cosette admitted to wondering back when they knew little of each other, and the lady thought talking about the only subject they knew for sure they had in common – Marius – would strengthen a bond between them. However misguided, the confession did, actually, help in the long run. Éponine was more quick to believe, later on, that Cosette was not, in fact, made up of air and flighty thoughts.

She wishes she could ask her advice, now.

On impulse, taken by this idle thought that quickly morphs into an idea, she stops her pacing about the room and sorts through the messy papers on her bed until she finds a few clean sheets.

Éponine sets her back upon the bed frame so that she cannot see the door, pulls the book onto her lap for use as a solid surface, and sets to writing.

If it happens only in an instant, she cannot be – she remains as of yet untouched by some overwhelming sensation, striking her in its completeness – and yet, what she _has_ fallen into is, then, foreign to her.

If it indeed comes in those slower steps Cosette spoke of _without_ that quickness, without the force of a first, meaningful gaze, then… then that is _different_.

Love – or, well, the notion of loving, but what's that matter if she once believed it to be true? – was always hopeless, never dangerous. If she had no chance, no chance at all, how could she fear doing something wrong to muck it up? Some part of her wonders if she is even capable of this.

She is sliding into something that is becoming less and less familiar the more it goes on. Of the concept, she is fully aware; of the feeling, only partly; of sheer intensity, nothing at all.

This she writes clumsily and rather inelegantly in the form of a letter. The act of clearing out a potion of her cluttered mind is soothing in its own rights, but it is not enough.

She will not take the time to lament the loss of a better life, but she will admit that she may have an easier time with puzzling it all out if she had something more to go off of than her parents – and she will certainly _not_ be modeling _anything_ about herself after them.

Sudden sound cuts through her thoughts. There is a rapping of knuckles on her door, and before she can rise, a voice softly calls, "Éponine?"

Enjolras.

She stills, ducking her head and hoping not to be seen when the door cracks open, and her name repeated, sounding slightly louder with the barrier removed.

Another moment of silence, and then the door is closed and she is left alone once more. She is not certain whether she hears the faint sigh or if it is imagined.

She sets aside the paper, resolving to rewrite the disorganized lettering later in the day, and curls her arms around her knees. Unless she has slept in overmuch – and she does not think she has – then he was coming by to talk to her. She doesn't know what he would say, or what she would say, or what would be expected of her or what it would lead to or – _anything_. Éponine runs a hand through her tangled hair in frustration as she slowly stands.

The plan which had before worked so well ended up working much _too_ well. She has replaced that memory of alleyways and almost-contact with another, and she'll not be able to rid herself of this one so easily.

They are not long from shore, and if she pours her time and energy into preparing for that then maybe, maybe, she can rely on the only antidote she knows – disappearance.

Vanish long enough from sight, and they will slip from her mind as easily as she slips from hers.

She tries not to let herself think on that more as she creeps quietly from her room and down the stairs.

Grantaire is already below, and it takes but a moment to convince him to join her in another match.

From the slightly sluggish movements, she suspects that he is still feeling some effects of last night's alcohol, but inebriation is no reason to assume she will do any better against him, especially when she is in this state. (Anger can be a motivator when she is stripped of all else that would giver her hope, but when she is all filled up with uncertainties, all it makes her is unsteady.)

She does fine enough at first, even with her wound; compensation requires her to only rely a little more heavily on defense, and this is not so difficult.

But, unwillingly, her thoughts thread through her consciousness enough to distract her and trip her up with worries.

When one of his swings not only knocks her sword out of her hands, but sends her stumbling after it, unable to recover quickly enough, he sets his own aside.

She is cursing at the pain that burns up her shoulder, at her unsure footing, at her sword, at everything, when he speaks up, having evidently appraised her enough. "All right now, seeing as we'll be making little progress until we resolve whatever's going on… what's troubling you?"

"My business," she responds on instinct, but there is little force behind it, and she does indeed set down her sword to sit. She settles with the air of someone weighed down.

To her surprise, he laughs lightly as he comes to sit beside her. "No, but you're as likely to hurt those around you as you are to hurt yourself right now, and we both know you don't go and ask for help."

Her smile is mirthless and comes out more a grimace, which quickly fades. She… can trust him. And why not? She'll play it by ear, and she can figure out how much to say. "Alright," she says quietly, leaning back. "You want to know? Here's what's going on."

She is avoiding him, that much is clear.

He does not want to force the issue, does not want to force a discussion, as making Éponine feel uneasy or cornered is far from what he wants – in the interest of ensuring all aboard are working well and agreeably, at the very least, even as he knows his rationale is not so distanced as this – but he _cannot_ let this drop, cannot let her pretend as though nothing has happened.

* * *

Combeferre knows the lot of it.

Feuilly is aware that there is a _problem_ and that it involves _Éponine_, but little beyond that. He has given the advice to be wary of her pride, and of his own, but could not – or would not – say any more than that.

Combeferre, however, is the one listening to him now, and with far too much amusement. "Well, my friend," he says with a shake of his head, "it seems I cannot help you in quite the way you want."

Not the answer Enjolras wants, but one he anticipated. He resumes his pacing; Combeferre continues, almost smiling. "The particulars of it is that it _is_ with _you_, and not me." He spreads his hands in a shrug. "Talk to her, in the way you know how."

Enjolras nods as he runs a hand through his curls. It sounds simple enough, but…

Something will have to be done.

* * *

A/N: Okay, so after angsting over this awhile (really, really terrified I haven't developed everything enough, especially as there aren't too many chapters left) I decided to just charge through and write this.  
So many apologies for everything about this panic!writing.  
(But your feedback has been lovely and wonderful and I appreciate every bit of it, just so you know ;u;)


	29. Encounters

The short transition to shore went about as well as could be expected.

They could have sailed as far as Rouen, which would take them much closer to Badeaux, but the risk in this move does not make up for saving only a day. The odds of being spotted rise sharply the farther they go, and they would, too, have less maneuverability on this path, where the Seine narrows.

Instead, they docked nearer to Le Havre, where they stay for so short a time it seemed as though they merely touched down.

Still, it was long enough to get everything ready – and long enough to give them another reason to hasten further.

The _Sentinel_ has been seen. The reports are recent, and place their pursuer not far away. The phantom ship, too, is included in these tales, but as they now are near to each other, they cannot rely on this ship to draw the _Sentinel_ away.

All this, they learned from the townsfolk. The wives were much more forthcoming with Courfeyrac, though it's really little surprise, but she was able to learn little details where voices are more hushed – she still has that air, she supposes, the one she assumed when Thénardier moved from a name to a way of life.

She _was_ surprised to find that she gains answers in brighter places, too; even with her cap over her hair (she felt no need to resort back to gamine, here, when doing so – when _dressing_ as so – would necessitate putting pressure on her shoulder, and she has no wish to crack open the raw and healing skin), she was, once, beamed at by an aging woman they spoke to only briefly.

In her confusion following this encounter, Grantaire pointed out that she _does _look far less disreputable when she does not cling so to the shade of the buildings around them, and she wondered if she is changing the opinions of those around her of if she is simply changing herself.

In any case, it was simple enough to find a safe route to Badeaux, and they were able to send ahead Grantaire, Courfeyrac, and Feuilly with two crates among them. The one carries the mirror, and as much rags and cushioning as they could muster in order to steady it; the other is present mainly to avert the suspicions that a lone box would bring about, and contains little more than trinkets.

There was, as well, the letter Éponine pressed to Grantaire's hands with spoken instructions to find her brother, who would send it on its way to the Pontmercys. Whether a response will ever reach her is another matter, but this gesture, at least, she makes.

The trip should take three days; they will meet again in five.

Departure is quick, unceremonious, and uneventful, and now, at a day and a half out, the most significant undertaking Éponine has is reacting to patterns of the weather.

In this heat, the air barely stirs.

Éponine is forced to resort back to skirts that swish around her ankles so that she might be a touch cooler. Her hair is simply shoved under her hat, as it is much too hot to bother with the intricacy of pins, and already the strands that have slipped out from beneath her cap are damp with sweat, sticking where they brush against her neck.

She has gotten used to practicing sword fighting with Grantaire when there are no tasks to call away her time and attention, and she finds herself missing those moments.

It's an absence that she would not feel quite so deeply had she not also she not also cut herself off from her _other_ method of passing the time - and of her own choice, too.

Limited it, at the least. Just… until she can get a handle on everything. She does certainly miss moments with Enjolras, too, and yet every time she is near him, it seems to be getting worse.

Though she may have no true reason to worry, if the conversation she delved into tentatively with Grantaire is any indication, she remains hesitant.

Éponine does not wish to be a fool in love. Enjolras would not be so oblivious should she follow at his heels, and she does not even have a proper excuse to be chasing after his shadow, as she did with Marius. Her lettering has progressed enough that she can pen short or simple passages with a fair amount of reliability, and she imagines she could do better with more work; she could pluck a book from a shelf and be assured that she would understand enough to struggle through.

Of this, she is pleased, but claiming to need additional help with her reading will not work so well now, and she cannot invent reason after reason in order to be nearer, even in the event that she manages to delay the conversation until it is forgotten.

She does not imagine that he _knows_ – she's barely even aware enough to say that _she_ 'knows', and she needed Grantaire's help for that – but he will suspect _something_. And this is _far_ from what she wants.

Now, Éponine is restless. The lack of wind makes even this open air feel stifling, and it is growing harder to keep her thoughts in check.

Her efforts have prolonged what may yet prove to be inevitable, true, but it is causing the strain she so hoped to avoid; perhaps slower, but present.

She feels she cannot linger long around anyone, or any place, for fear that Enjolras will appear and she will be drawn into him, so she has not interacted much with _anyone_, lately.

(She _does_ learn why Bossuet is no longer allowed to prepare meals in this interim. If the fire leaps that high when he has only barely entered the room, she cannot imagine his _luck_ will allow for any better outcome.)

Why did this have to be so – so – complicated?

Éponine buries her face in her hands a moment before standing. Staying up on deck seems less and less palatable the more she wallows, and so she begins to make her way down the steps.

For his part, Enjolras is equally engaged in a similar struggle, but he is not preoccupied with avoidance. No, he is attempting to accomplish just the opposite.

The lengths to which she goes to evade him are becoming ridiculous.

Éponine remains amiable in all her dealings, but she is unusually cheerful with him in the moments before she makes her escape, artfully dodging the issue at hand whenever a hint of it appears – and sometimes less subtly. She does not always bother with thin excuses, simply ducking away and disappearing, and he's almost certain she does not need to do any urgent 'deck swabbing,' now or ever.

It had gotten to the point where he'd – asked Grantaire.

Grantaire just shook his head and laughed – a little too mirthfully, it seemed – and clapped him on the back. "You have made a fine mess of things, my friend," he had declared warmly, and as he departed, Enjolras could make out something about having 'finally cracked the marble.'

So, with this unhelpfull commentary fueling him, Enjolras has been left plagued by thoughts to interrupt all his work, all his planning, more than ever before, and he finds he cannot let that be.

He can't quite see her as being happy over this, no matter how voluntary her actions may be – twice, he catches her staring, a look of curiosity alight in her eyes. Rather than immediately avert her gaze, she turns away slowly, looking to be – troubled, perhaps.

To all intents and purposes, and for reasons he can only guess at, she has been trying her best to stay far away from him.

Which is why he is so surprised to encounter her as she descends the stairs.

She is equally so, if the way she jerks her head up and looks at him with wide, startled eyes is any indication. With her stepping down and him heading up, they are paused halfway.

"Enjolras." His name tumbles from her lips quickly, seeming more a knee-jerk reaction than anything, but when his own lips part to speak, her face clouds over. "Apologies for blocking the way. I should – should go, and–" Her eyes dart to the side as if sizing up her options, and he does not bother to soften the slight frown that appears at this. She is attempting to avoid him, again. She is this close, and yet she wishes to slip away, and it is sudden enough that he is, for once, at a loss for words.

Almost.

"Éponine." A hand laid on her arm and she falls gently into stillness.

He pauses, and then he lets her go, hoping she does not immediately dart off, and runs a hand through his hair. Thankfully, she waits.

"I know you must be… unhappy." But what does he say?

She remains even yet, but her eyes are pleading. "Just forget about it, won't you, monsieur?"

"Éponine, I–" She is mostly still, but he watches her lean forward, almost imperceptibly as she waits for and anticipates the words. '_I don't want to forget._'

She has come a long way since that wary slip introduced as Julien, turned – from her own recounting – from vagabond to this dark-haired creature who looks _well_ and _wary_ and _bright_. There _is_ that wariness, still, and yet she is brilliant.

It is – confusing, but not so unwelcome now. He can articulate this to her, if she will let him. If she has been dwelling on thoughts that are growing increasingly less unwelcome, perhaps… it's worth a shot. "If it _is_ all the same to you," he begins carefully, "I would rather remember." And his lips quirk up.

She leans in a touch more, obvious now, and he notices the way something guarded seems to slip from her eyes to be replaced with something vivid. His voice is gentler when he speaks again. "Éponine, you don't have to–"

And the ship rocks violently.

He stumbles back, and she jerks forwards into him, tossed off balance. Their inelegant stumbling is punctuated by the unmistakable sound of cannon fire.

* * *

A/N: My laptop's backlight is broken and I'd like you all to know I am typing on a heap of junk to get this to you, that's how much I love you.  
It's late – I am literally falling asleep at my keyboard over here and I should rest before I start drooling and short out the wiring – so I will fix any spelling (or plot) mistakes in the morning. (Feel free to point them out, yeah?)


	30. Attack

All thoughts she held – '_this is not what I expected in the least_' and '_hold on, maybe he didn't want to_ _admonish me_' and '_maybe this will not be a disaster after all?_' – reciprocation is a foreign concept but even that he is not to scold or reprimand seems out of reach – flee from her head as the ship rocks and she finds herself careening into the man before her.

His hand falls to her arm to help steady her, and when she fully regains her balance and looks up, she sees that same note of urgency mirrored in his expression.

What Éponine knows, now, is that something is going on above deck, something dangerous.

Understanding without speaking, they each allow the other to squeeze past. Up he goes, into the fray, and she makes a sharp right turn into her room. It's not usually the greatest of ideas to leave a sword half-buried in her sheets, even sheathed as it is, but right now she is happy for her previous inattentiveness.

Éponine is still in skirts, still unbound, but even a second wasted cannot be allowed. She will have to sacrifice mobility for time. She wishes her hair was pinned better than her clumsy hands could manage – Jehan is an excellent tutor, but she finds she is not always so skilled a pupil – but she is incredibly grateful that it is pinned at all.

Bahorel looks particularly rumpled, and she takes note of the way the hair on one side of his head seems to stand straight up as he stumbles past her door in the short time it takes her to ready herself.

She ascends the steps quickly, and it's not until she has reached the deck to be greeted with the sight of boarding hooks that it fully sinks in that they are forced into the unfamiliar position of defending, and then her eyes dart to the feared ship.

She is greeted not with the sight of polished terror, but with a small, poorly-maintained sloop. Is this the so-feared _Sentinel_? But no, this ratty, ragged thing does not fit any of the descriptions.

For a moment, she is struck with an inability to fully reconcile this image, nor the shame of being caught by some nameless, nothing-doing band of ragged sailors.

But – no, no, no, they will _not_ be caught. Not here, not now.

Despite her best efforts, panic begins to clog her mind. She knows that some were below, and some were above, but _who_, she cannot quite recall, and it is strangely… _empty_ up here. Bahorel and Enjolras are on deck, or on their deck, she knows, but Joly, Bossuet, Jehan, Combeferre – she sees no trace of those. And if they are wounded…

'_But there would be some trace; corpses do not disappear into thin air_,' she thinks, and then hates herself for it.

Sword securely at her side, she crosses the gap between the ships easily, feet flying over the boards. No, that is ridiculous. They have been taken by surprise, but they are not fools. They would not be wounded now, and they would certainly not be –

And before she can creep below, or even finish this thought, pain sparks and consumes her and all she sees is sparks, quickly overtaking her vision, then dying out to blackness.

* * *

Her head is hazy and heavy and her first attempts to raise it lead to her forehead thudding back to the ground, a wave of mixed dizziness and nausea overtaking her with such overwhelming intensity that she cannot decide which is worse.

An unpleasant voice cuts into her newly-awakened consciousness, and for a moment she thinks, '_yes, the nausea_,' as she curls into herself.

The speaker, whoever he is, does not appear to notice her awakening. She forces open heavy eyelids to see.

A thin, unpleasant-looking man is striding back and forth in front of the Amis - who are, quite literally, tied up, and looking none too happy about it.

She can't quite focus on the words, only that the general tone is that of poorly sugarcoated malice, until movement draws her eyes.

One of the men to the side of her Amis, ostensibly there to watch over them, licks salt-cracked lips and speaks up quietly. "We don't need all of 'em, do we? Won't just a few of 'em do?" He jerks a thumb at Jehan in a manner that is likely meant to be either falsely discrete or threatening.

Jehan calmly, casually, and effortlessly smashes the man's foot with his boot, and she hears a distinctive crack as the man begins howling and hopping.

It makes such a peculiar picture she cannot suppress a small bout of laughter at this, even as her head swims. This, finally, diverts the apparent ringleader's attention to her, and his unhappiness at plans gone ever so slightly awry quickly shifts to smarmy satisfaction.

"Ah, it seems our ragged little beauty is awake."

His strides are long, and soon he is kneeling in front of her, grasping her chin between his rough fingers.

"Hello, little miss," he greets with false civility, and her lip curls as his warm breath washes over her face. He taps at her chin with the handle of a blade she had not noticed, and the implication in the action is not lost on her. "You know… they gave you up in a heartbeat," he reports, reedy voice crackling with undue cheer.

Her eyes widen a fraction, and it is enough for him to notice. So that's what it is, then. They have passed her off as a hostage, a lie likely easily believed because – well, what place has she among these shining idealists? She seems so very dark and suspicious next to them, who it seems the very sun favors.

And a woman, naturally, she thinks almost as an afterthought – her mind is, in the aftermath of its bludgeoning, working not as quickly as she would like.

She can't be sure whether this would be a deciding factor or not. Among a more _respectable_ crew, yes, but many in Saint Michele found how unwise it was to underestimate someone on such superficial grounds, and he seems to have stumbled from the same sort of seedy background.

"Oh," he says, drawing uncomfortable close, "did you think yourself _special_ to them? Were you drawn in by those pretty faces? Did you go through their _initiation_? He grins lewdly and her mouth turns down as he continues. "They use you and then – toss you aside."

He ghosts a hand across her bare shoulders and she shudders. Behind the man, she sees them react with varying degrees of anger – spines straightening in response to his words, pursed lips, eyebrows shooting sharply down; a clenched fist from Bahorel, never one for subtlety, a darkening to Enjolras' gaze – and the simple idea that they would fight for her if she needed is enough to cool her burning rage to a simmer.

And yes, she thinks as her head begins to clear, she knows this man's type. He is the sort to the type to believe their pretty, young wife is calling to every man that passes, doubts her without reason, creates a self-fulfilling prophecy. He assumes at her meanings, her desires – he knows her not, yet he would decide her fate.

She has seen many of men like these, and she knows how this ends.

He thinks her weak-willed, weak-minded, and easily and utterly manipulatable. It will be his undoing in the end.

She lifts her chin an inch and does not let her gaze waver. '_I was meant for better things than this, once. I will not be brought down by the likes of you_.'

He reminds her of her father.

When he sees his words are not having the reaction he desires, whatever that may be, he straightens to face his captives.

"See," says the man, apparently resuming his monologue to them and waving his knife about as he speaks, "your little policy has some, ah, _flaws_, y'might say. The king's precious ship? Well, turns out they got desperate real quick, and they were so grateful to have the assistance of a humble ship as ours they had no qualms of telling the tale of just who robbed them blind days earlier. And, well," he chuckles, so smug that Éponine wants to crawl to her feet and battle the ensuing wave of nausea just for the satisfaction of cracking her knuckles against his face, "who would pass up the chance to capture the great Amis? Not I."

She notes the use of 'I' rather than 'we' - frequent applications of that attitudes would be sure to cause some strain on relations with the crew.

And with that, he waves a hand in a manner meant to seem regal. "Send them away."

It will take days to reach the shore and it is maddening, maddening, maddening. This ship – she does not bother to learn its name, in contempt – is neither so strong no so large as the Barricade, and this journey which should be only a moment, should only take the span of two days, if they took their time, will take nearly four.

That _their_ crew is aboard the _Barricade_, too, and sailing it ineptly beside them, is infuriating.

She will not speak to any of the crew, and snaps at them when they attempt to engage her. She listens to them – inanity, mostly, but she hears of their plans to sail farther than Le Havre, as near Paris as they can get, which is where the dreaded Captain Javert is said to be convening in less than a week's time.

They bring her meals and she sits and waits – but Éponine is no lovely little lark. She transforms her cage into something familiar, and scrounges up bits of charcoal to use on the scrap of paper she'd been given earlier.

(She's never quite gotten over that habit of hiding little useful things in her boots, even when the items themselves do not seem useful at the time – really, what did she think she was going to need crumpled paper so badly for, anyway? – but now she is grateful.)

Angry she may be for their apparent betrayal in form of this dismissal – deemed in her best interest or not – and whether they intended her to or not, she will find some escape, _with_ them, and she will take it up with them when they are once more free.

_When_.

Not if.

She does not intend to be caged for long.

* * *

A/N: Right. So. After spending an unpleasant amount of time working on a stupidly important portfolio, I ended up becoming violently ill, and puking out your guts is really not conducive to writing fics. But hey, I'm not dying anymore, and the next urgent assignment's not for another week!


	31. Overwhelming

She was not permitted to see them.

Though the ship's illustrious _Captain_ did not believe her capable of physically freeing the Amis – or of much of anything else, really, given that she could roam almost freely – he _did_ think her still attached to them. Rightly so, but it made her task a little more difficult.

Her restlessness quickly morphed into concern, and this deepened into desperation with each moment that passed her by.

In the end, she got her audience.

This crew is not so loyal as the ones they guarded. She needed only draw on her memories of days past to push and prod and intimidate, and she has much to draw from. They misinterpreted her meaning, to be sure, but better they think her a quean than discern her intentions.

It helped that, for all the Captain's words, Éponine is no more than a bonus, and only if he could sway her – and it became increasingly obvious that he could not. Word-of-mouth, then, is all she would good for, to them, and even then, the Amis and their ship remain much better evidence than the word of the gamine. Those who guarded knew they need not take precautions to keep her safe, so it was not overly hard to get past them.

Plans made were fragile, tenuous, no details to map out clean and clear with too many variables, too much unknown and wavering.

If they fooled their captors with false weakness, if they would spring away as soon as the ship touched down, then they could not have _theirs_, could not take back their _Barricade_. That the ship is obvious is less the problem – it is meant to be a symbol, after all – but it would be occupied, and it was damaged to boot. Not at all critically, as far as she could tell, but not quite small enough to completely brush away.

No, they would have to hide out, regroup, replan.

If escaping their captors could not be done this way, they could take back the _Barricade_ later, they decided – this crew would want to repair its minor damage, both as proof, and as a matter of pride. (Though she thought it unlikely the _Barricade_ would be deemed a prize, they evidently did not think the same.) La Force would await them, if the sight of the _Sentinel_'s white sails were not to first grace them instead. A keeping-house for the monstrous and the misbehaving, crimes major and minor, containing all these alike before judgment, Éponine is no stranger to this prison.

Let the crew lead her Amis away, let them think all was well, let them brag about their capture and let La Force know who it would hold, know the name of the implacable man who is expected to receive them. She could gather them again, find Grantaire, find Courfeyrac, find Feuilly, and her Amis could be freed once more.

So much time was spent on these flimsy plans.

Once, as she was leaving, drawing away (for she visited often, as often as she could, because what would they have done if that Captain found out? _Throw her in_ with them?), she was able to – speak with him.

"It was not your choice to make," she had told him quietly. They stood close together, not exactly _fearful_ of those outside, not even _wary_, exactly, but resentful – these words were not for the intruders, and would not be given.

"And what would you have chosen, Éponine?" He sounded more weary than anything, and perhaps he agreed, but she had a point to make and she would make it.

"To stand with you." Her response was simple but resolutely spoken, as true as she knew how.

And he nodded. She could not name the look in his eyes exactly, but nameless or not, she thought – perhaps – that in his believing her, he thought her capable. Of – attempting, at the least, the things _she_ knew she could do, and in that moment she could –

Kiss him.

She did not, of course; the moment faded quickly, and she left, off to curl up in some darkened corner somewhere and think.

Four days, filled with the tenuous planning that spanned that time, and they did all they could.

It was not enough to set her at ease, not even close, but enough to go over mentally, tracing each possibility until she felt sure she must have planned for every contingency.

And in spite of this, she felt sick as she watched Enjolras, Jehan, Joly, Bossuet, and Bahorel being led away.

No chance was given for them to extricate themselves, and she herself was held back by snide questions and false concern. She did not bother with hiding her hostility, and if they wanted anything more of her, she did not learn of it.

And this is how Éponine comes to be combing the streets once more on feet quickened by a pulse that thrums so fast the sound nearly takes over her hearing.

She is worried, and this slows her. The sun is past its highest point and slipping lower by the time she manages it any progress at all. She is lost, torn between searching for the separated Amis and her brother, until, abruptly, she realizes she recognizes the small face she sees in the crowd. A glance shows an even younger boy trailing after, and she can identify the pair of brothers with their strange air of familiarity who so revere her own. Thomas, she thinks, and… Alain. If they are here, Gavroche cannot be far behind.

They spot her just an instant after she begins to draw nearer, and they do not shy away, not even when she asks them, as gently as she can manage right now, to bring her to Gavroche.

Normally, she'd scoff at how easily they trust her – the oldest must be eleven, at least, and isn't he old enough to know better by now? – but for the moment, she is thankful.

He is, indeed, close. He stands just out of sight of most onlookers in the shadow of a little café.

A smile lights his face up brightly at first, but soon slips away, owing partly to her own expression and partly to the thought he voices. "Didn't think you'd be coming 'round anytime soon."

"I wasn't supposed to," she says lowly. The two little boys dart over to Gavroche's side as she speaks, chattering blithely to each other. "It went wrong. I need to find – the ones who brought you the letter. Do you know where they went?" Assuming they found him. She hopes they did, that he knows what she means – and then, to her relief, he nods.

* * *

She finds Courfeyrac first. His eyes fall first on Gavroche beside her, then to her. She does not bother to hide the worry on her face, and so his "Éponine?" is soon followed by a frown and, "Éponine, what's happened?"

She breathes in deeply and begins. "There was… an ambush. A day out."

His eyes widen. "The _Sentinel_?"

Éponine shakes her head. "Some other ship. After the bounty, or glory."

"And everyone is–?"

"Taken. Not hurt, but captured."

"_Where_?" Not Courfeyrac, this time – she glances to the sound to see Grantaire, with Feuilly behind him, looking startled.

"A prison, La Force, meant to keep them until – the _Sentinel_ arrives to collect and judge them." Éponine digs her nails into the skin of her palm, the weight of the situation hitting her. If they are not quick enough, or if anything, _anything_ goes wrong… She rubs her knuckles across her forehead. "The _Barracade_ is taken, but meant to be turned over. She'll be empty by the time we need her, or mostly so. Enough."

Grantaire steps forward to carefully pull away her arm and lay a hand on her elbow. He speaks, his voice surprisingly gentle. "There is a plan, dear 'Ponine?"

"Beyond finding a way in as soon as possible? No. I–" And then she cuts herself off.

She _does_ have an in – or she might. It's nothing she can guarantee, but it's better than trying to break everyone in, navigate through, and try to escape, and she can't believe she didn't think of it before.

"Wait. Gavroche," she begins, turning to face the boy who has remained attentive. "Have you seen Azemla of late? I think this calls for a little reunion."

* * *

A/N: My tumblr is Cannibalisticskittles, if you wanted to know. I tend to take requests there more often than anywhere else.  
This one was hard to write for some reason.  
And we are very, very near the end, now.


	32. An In

"How many of you have suffered?"

She has clambered atop a table for her speech, visible from nearly any area in the bar.

She is not drunk – not on alcohol, at least, though she'd down a few good swallows and 'spilled' enough on her clothes that she reeks of it. No, Éponine is made bold by fear alone, and her actions, though strange, are born out of necessity.

"Spent your lives in fear and anger, no choice left to you?"

She can see them in the crowd – the edge of Courfeyrac's jacket as the crowd parts unconsciously for him, a glimpse of Feuilly's light eyes, peering out beneath his borrowed cap, the barest hint of Grantaire's angled smile – and knowing they are present is comforting.

She is able to breathe a little slower before continuing. "Through days of empty stomachs, wondering when the end would come and _wishing_ for it?"

She's had no time to rehearse, no time at all.

Her reunion with her sister had been brief, but happy. Azelma was looking well, still rail-thin and sharp, but moving with an acquired smoothness, a comfort in her own skin that hadn't been there last.

Soon she had to cut short their time with her request – secure the help of Henri, the guard who had been kind to them, who was sweet on Azelma.

Her sister seemed hesitant for only a moment, before nodding decisively and agreeing.

Azelma knew where to find the man, and if they followed along after, she would take them there as she spoke to him.

Just before setting off, Éponine had spoken quietly with Gavroche. Just telling him it would be _dangerous_ is no deterrent to him, and so she pulled forth a reluctant promise not to interfere. He'd handed her a letter, said it was going to be given to her when they parted. She knew, then, he might still follow along at a distance, but this is enough for her.

Waiting just outside with the current remainder of her Amis, she chewed idly on her fingertips – chewing fingernails made them raggedy, raggedy nails would snag, and tangling nails in the fabric of someone's pocket was never wise, especially when the point was to slip off with their money – as she went through the letter Gavroche had given her. Cosette's lovely loops were immediately distinguishable, but a few letters were marked to thickly, and several splotches of ink suggested the whole thing was written in a hurry.

Valjean – she _knew_ she had heard that name before, but could not place it until the mention of the _Fantine_ near the end of it.

Just inside, she picked up more of their words, so she had little time to think on this. The implications she caught were enough that she allowed a faint smile to curve up her lips.

She could hear Azelma assuring him that he was under no obligation to do anything, which was soon met by his soft declaration that he would do anything for the Thénardier sisters.

Éponine thinks he would, too, the sweet fool, unknowing of the power such a promise could hold, and she could tell he would help from that moment.

Off-duty guards frequently drink themselves into a stupor until duty calls once more, and those at La Force are no different. He can tell them where they will be most likely to find a mark, and a plan is quickly devised to pluck the identifying papers from one.

The others – _any_ of the others, really – would be better for this. They would be more convincing by far, but Henri is a guard at Les Madelonettes, a women's prison – and as she was not going to commit Azelma to anything more involved than this, she would have to do.

The plan is tenuous – if something goes wrong, that's it – but if it doesn't, if it doesn't –

Well, if it works out, they may get out of this mess after all.

It's not as if this is particularly difficult, either. Éponine is no great speaker, not like them, but she knows what she's talking about; even if her voice does not command their attention so fully, she can keep herself in sight, judging from the quiet murmurs of agreement amongst the normal chatter.

Honestly, it doesn't even matter _what_ she talks about – so long as she appears drunk and disorderly at the right moment, this should work – but if she can sway _anyone_, even a little, so much the better.

She just feels… exposed. Conspicuous.

And when a pair decorated in the recognizable uniforms comes in and immediately frowns at the clamor, she is glad of this. She continues, adding a hint of a slur, of unsteadiness, and pretends not to have noticed them until they are before her.

If she had thought the sounds of support were faint before, this is nothing compared to now. "Alright," sighs one, "stop this mucking about."

She pauses in her speech and offers them a wide, wobbly smile. Evidently not deeming this enough of a response, he tries again. "Come on down from there, mademoiselle."

There's a groan of frustration, and she is hauled off the table. Predictably, she stumbles, though she does catch herself before she tumbles full to the floor. It is with momentous effort that she manages to keep from lashing out, from trying to escape.

And this is their dear Henri's cue.

He steps forward, making no attempt to blend into the crowd, and draws their attention.

She catches snippets of the conversation between the three – "you're off duty, aren't you?" "Yeah. Can't believe – as soon as –" "aw, she's drunk isn't she?" (here the chattier of the pair leans in to peer at her, and then recoils the second the scent of alcohol hits him) "urgh, wish we could just ignore – but he'll never let us hear the end of it if we let them 'stir up unrest'" "ah, you've got Lachance, then?" "Mmh." "I'm under Olivier at Les Madelonettes, myself."

Her breath catches. He continues. "My shift's about to start. 'f you're not heading out yet, I could – " And the one is already taken in. He releases his hold on her arm and grins. "'f you make it so I don't have to take that walk again, I'll buy you drinks for a week. You're sure Madelonettes'll take 'em?"

Henri shrugs. "Why not? Won't be nothing a night spent thinking this over in a cell can't fix," he says.

The quieter one looks down his nose at her. "Just… make sure it doesn't happen again."

She looks up at him and giggles, the notes falsely light – and then she pitches into him, fisting her hands into the fabric of his jacket and knocking the man nearly off balance.

The man shoves her away and she pretends to stumble, and immediately, Henri sets to righting the man.

In her place, now just slightly behind, she, and sees his _own_ fingers curl around something before he draws himself up and away from the pair.

"Come on," he mutters to her, giving her elbow a shark jerk, and if his voice is less rough than it should be, well, they don't seem to notice.

He holds his grip only a step out the door, and then releases her.

Grantaire appears first, slipping out through the door and slinging his arm around her shoulders with a quiet "well done," then Courfeyrac, beaming, then Feuilly, urging them away from the door.

"You've got it, then?" she asks. It's mostly unnecessary – she _did_ see that sleight of hand, after all – but she has to know, has to be sure.

Henri nods, and fishes out the other guard's identification from a coat pocket.

She has trousers beneath her skirt, and these become visible as she wriggles free of the outer layer, and it takes but a moment to don the hat Feuilly hands her.

It's clear that their guard is uncomfortable with his part, ducking his head low more often than not, when he is nearby, but he appears no less willing to help.

Most of the way, they travel as if they are simply acquaintances, but as they draw nearer, they move closer together, taking on more of the look of waywards being herded.

And they do not travel long like this before they are there.

She knows this place. A prison for the not yet condemned, the security is, in places, lax enough that she has been privy to more than a few break-outs, several involving her own father. One ward is dedicated to old offenders – those who will almost certainly be found guilty and made to make penance – and the new offenders, those more likely to be found innocence. Her Amis have not been convicted; despite this, they have been pushed into the ward for the former.

She has heard that, just beyond these walls, the Princess de Lamballe was executed, and this sparked their first, their great, revolution; she wonders if those detained within would appreciate this.

At this moment, to her, it is the least important thing in the world; she would tear it down, brick by brick if she must, to get to them, historical value be damned.

Henri's breathing become a touch uneven as they near the man on duty and he fumbles with his identification, but the guard merely gives it a cursory glance and waves a hand, very obviously bored. He doesn't even ask for an explanation, just settles in his chair once more. In fact, he looked fairly unimpressed at Henri's stuttering attempts at the justification of sobering up a group of drunkards, until the man stops up his words out of embarrassment and leads them past.

They walk a fair distance away, around two corners, and when they are surrounded only by quiet cells, he steps back.

"Sorry about that," he mutters, head down. "Not a very good liar." He looks up then. "This is as far as I go. I can't…"

She nods. "I wouldn't ask anything more of you." Disagreeing with facets of the justice system is all well and good, but he is not up to actively participating in a revolution just yet. And Azelma is – attached to him, besides. How much so, she can only guess, but… well, it wouldn't do to get him implicated when (_when, not if_) investigations are made upon the disappearance of the infamous Amis.

There are times she wonders if she wouldn't be better off following her parents' example, if it wouldn't be easier, but this – favors born of kindness, without deception, from those so unhardened by life that they have trouble with easy lies, the thought that her sister could be happy with a person like this, even if it is not _this_ person, that perhaps more _are_ like this, all simplicity and felicity – it would have been easier, no doubt, but better? No, not at all.

He touches two fingers to his temple in the imitation of tipping a cap. "Good luck to you, mademoiselle – to you all." He turns, and disappears. He will walk straight out while they continue on.

When the sound of footsteps fully fade, she adjusts her cap and her lips curl up.

"Alright," she murmurs. "Let's not keep them waiting."

* * *

A/N: Was tempted to throw more of a Firefly reference in there, but then I'd never be able to let that OC go. This one's a little shoddy. Sorry about that. Thoughts?


	33. An Escape

Having never been personally confined in this desolate place, she has only distant memories and descriptions to go off of, and every step she takes is done so with lingering trepidation, the fear of failure, of being caught.

The prison is all grays and cold stones and silent, sleeping prisoners.

Well, _most_ of them are sleeping, anyway.

As they progress, they find that even their quiet footsteps are enough to rouse a handful of the occupants.

The innocents – those accused of minor crimes, or those falsely accused who know the evidence to support them will soon come to light – and the desperate – unknowing of the system and afraid of the consequences – are inclined to chatter, to call out and plead, but they are also the most easily intimidated.

The others – those almost certainly likely guilty – are familiar with the concept of a prison break, and they know simply calling out will not help them.

Some of them only stare with faint interest as the group passes and then turn away; a few attempt to quietly bargain and then shrug off the lack of response; one gives them a cheery wave and softly wishes them luck and a lovely evening.

There is only one who gives them significant worry.

They are getting closer – they must be – when they hear the footsteps of a guard up ahead, and they flatten against the cells, attempting to make themselves small and unnoticeable, when the prisoner within the cell near her speaks up, muttering groggily, then clearer. "Evening," he greets, and from the sound of it, he is nearing the bars.

"Shhh," Éponine murmurs, distracted. With any luck, the guard will simply continue walking along the hallway, and they will be able to turn and continue on the path where he came from.

To her growing dismay, however, he _does_ appear to hear the guard, and only grows louder. "How _wonderful_ to see you," he continues, as if oblivious, "but, you know, I think there is someone who would be a little less thrilled…"

He's going to give them away, alert the guard in an attempt to curry favor. Anger wells up within her – she has not, has _not_, come this far to be thwarted by the likes of _this_.

She whirls, one hands clamping tightly to a bar, the other darting just past to grasp the front of the man's shirt, and snarls, "I _swear_ if you continue, I will–"

If you asked her later what she'd said, she couldn't tell you, but it had the effect of silencing the man, as well as making him grow pale. She releases him, and he stumbles back.

She has enough time to adjust herself into the shadows and steady her breathing when the guard passes. He sniffs and rubs at his nose as he passes, muttering something about damp prisons, and does not even spare a glance their way.

She does not sigh in relief, but when Courfeyrac's hand lands on her shoulder, urging her away from the cells and inclining his head towards the way ahead, she sends him a thin smile, and they set off once more.

Whether they would be grouped together or not was something she wondered about, worried about. What if they were separated, one each to their own cell, in every corner of this prison?

So they continue peering into darkened corners until they, at last, see a familiar face looking back – Bahorel.

He jolts upright when he sees them, grinning widely, and she cannot help but match this in turn.

Courfeyrac and Feuilly continue on as she pauses with Grantaire – they have devised this plan already, with one to stay to open the door and the other to keep watch – already at work.

It's one part finesse to three parts force, and she has a feeling this particular cell will not truly hold its occupants for some time, if the distinctive _crack_ the lock gives before yielding is anything to go by.

Bahorel is fiercely happy, and she loses a bit of the panic that made her movements jerky as it bleeds into her.

The feeling only grows when they catch up to not only Feuilly and Courfeyrac, but Joly and Bossuet as well, and, as she finds Jehan, it is nearly taking her over when she is able to pick out Combeferre's voice, and a moment later, hears Courfeyrac cheerfully report, "Éponine gave a speech."

And she can imagine who that is directed to.

She finishes with the lock before turning around, pretending not to hear until she turns to see Enjolras quirk an eyebrow, looking at her even as he answers, "did she now?"

She ducks her head. "It was terrible," she murmurs, and there's a smile tugging up her lips, "I should leave the speaking to you, bourgeois boy."

And then there is no time for words, only navigating the labyrinthine prison in their attempts at freedom, moving quicker the closer they get to the entrance – and if she ends up near their fearless leader more often than not, well, that's just coincidence, isn't it?

They are slow and quiet only until they are sure they have passed each guard but the last, and this one, they run past – little point in being discrete when the whole city will soon know of their escape. She sees it for a fraction of a moment, but she is tempted to laugh at the startled look on the man's face.

They only stop running when they are several streets past, well on their way to the docks. Éponine pauses a moment to catch her bearings, and she chances a glance at Enjolras.

There is light coming over the rooftops, glinting golden, catching in his hair, and it is this that makes the situation sink in – they _did_ it. They _made_ it. They have come from the darkness, the unknown, to her city streets. They will _not_ be kept, not be captured again. They are_ going to be okay_ and she is so happy she could –

And she does.

Éponine darts forward, placing her hands on his shoulders to draw herself up. There is a moment of hesitation, hovering before him, golden curls at the edge of her vision and her nose bumping against his – and then she tilts her face but a fraction until it's now her lips that brush against his and there is contact as her fingers flutter against the now-familiar coat. It is brief, light, barely there, but for a moment he follows after, inclining his head further after she began to draw away.

He looks – almost – reluctant. "Éponine…" There is a world of questions he has fit into the syllables of her name, and in his tone, perhaps, answers.

And she is not so worried, not now. She feels as though she must temper her actions with words, hoping to convey through some subtlety in tone or motion what she does not fully understand, not yet, to say that she is not so much running away right now, just… putting off. She breathes in deeply and speaks in a rush, each word weighed with the enormity, the hope, of potential.

'"You know how you wanted – to sway the people? To draw sympathy, to find a supporter?" She takes a step back, away from his searching eyes. "Well… you've got one, and whether she wants to or not, she believes." And then she is back with the others, moving again, half-daring to think it will be just fine in the end.

* * *

The _Barricade_ is empty.

Two – crewmembers, she recognizes dimly – are sleeping nearby, evidently supposed to be on watch. They have no trouble slipping by, or, indeed, in beginning to cast off.

Éponine stands, taking in the view from the deck. It is very likely she will not be able to return for some time, but – she imagines her city will carry on just fine without her, and that she will be… _happy_.

And she is taking this in until she is pulled gently, a hand on her arm tugging her to face someone.

Enjolras.

She should apologize for earlier actions now, or deny them – how, exactly, she doesn't know, but the thought crosses her mind for an instant – but she wants, she wants, she wants, and against all reason, she thinks maybe her selfish desires just might be granted.

He grins, a flash of teeth (she thought he was like fire when she first she saw him, and sometimes she thinks that still), and there it is, in his eyes again. "You know," he says, and her heart quickens as he draws nearer, "you can't give me a question like that and _not_ expect me to give you an answer sooner or later."

And then he's tugging her closer still – and this time, she notices – all the little details she must have, somehow, missed. She notices his fingers curled at her waist and cupping her jaw, the steady thrum of his pulse against hers – and there it is.

Happiness, burning away at her.

When they part, she finds it hard to break out of this state, flushed and nearly gasping until she sees him grinning at her current condition

She cannot bring herself to really scowl at him, though. It's curious – no matter how hard she tries, the corners of her mouth keep floating up. How odd. Perhaps it has something to do with the way he looks equally flushed, and his breathing is now uneven.

From somewhere behind, there's a whoop.

When she shakes off her haziness to glance behind, she is greeted by faces displaying an array of emotions – none of which being surprise.

"_Finally_," groans Grantaire, a smile pulling up one half of his mouth. "You two might not be so hopeless after all."

"I bet on another week," murmurs Bossuet desolately as Joly pats his shoulder.

Bahorel is triumphant as he nudges Jehan, equally pleased, as Feuilly shakes his head and trying to suppress a smile.

Courfeyrac is attempting to look innocent (it doesn't work in the slightest) and Combeferre wears a faint smile and that look that somehow seems to say the pair really shouldn't be startled by this.

Enjolras, still holding her, now releases her slowly.

For a moment they simply watch each other, and then what he said occurs to her. Éponine ducks her head and pushes her hair back and says, "I think I'm satisfied with that answer."

She delights in the softening of his gaze.

She knows there are sails to maintain and courses to chart, after all, but she could stay like this for – well, she doesn't know _how_ long, just dwelling in this moment.

And then she hears Bahorel _swear_ he saw the dumbfounded looks on the crew that had captured them, and she laughs, her voice made breathy by adrenaline and joy, and she is reminded there is happiness to be found all around her, now.

And – there might be time for more of _this_, later.

The _Barricade_ travels the distance easily, down the Seine, growing closer and closer to open ocean.

On and on and on they go, wind through her hair, pulling taut the sails, and it looks as though luck is finally, _finally_, on their side.

At least, it seems to until she notices the ship.

It cuts an imposing figure, its mast rising up like a spire, the line of it unforgiving.

Her stomach drops out and she stills, held in place on the deck.

The _Sentinel_.

* * *

A/N: Believe me, I would _love_ to just write all the time and not have to bother with projects needing attending to. Fortunately, I have just finished my Senior Exit Project, and I have prom tonight, and everything is wonderful, if giving me reason to write quickly. (Sorry if anything seems _too_ rushed.)  
And – seriously, if I get even a _tenth_ of this kind of feedback on my book, I might be the happiest author in the world. May I declare my undying love for you all now?


	34. Rush

Even had it not bore its title cleanly lettered upon its side, Éponine thinks she would have recognized it.

It matches every description, every tale, and matches so clearly the picture she had made of it in her mind it is as if she has plucked out a worry-heavied thought and set it to life. If she tries, she can even make out the figure of the man at the helm.

The rest have noticed it, too. It's obvious in the way the boisterous chattering turns to murmurs, almost lost in the wind.

Her thoughts run parallel to theirs, if the slightest bit more panicked. They have open ocean before them – where they go now matters not, so long as it is away from here – it is impossible that they have not been seen, but perhaps the _Sentinel_ does not recognize them? The _Barricade_ is, after all, only an epithet, and there is no name delicately sketched upon her side – but this is unlikely.

Not for the first time, she wonders if her schoolboys couldn't have stolen a less distinctive vessel to begin their pirating careers, but there is less mirth in the thought than usual.

She draws in a deep breath.

Unlikely, but possible. Evasion is not so out of reach, if the _Sentinel_ has not yet recognized them.

Slowly, she draws near to Combeferre, Bossuet, and Joly to listen in – the choice is based less on who she is approaching and more to do with proximity – while keeping her gaze locked on the ship.

"Do you think she's seen us yet?"

This is met by a shake of the head, which she notes from the corner of her eye. "The _Sentinel_ might not recognize us, but she sees us."

As she'd thought, then, as she'd feared.

"Steer away then? Avoid and just hope they don't wonder why?"

"Carefully," is the response, "or it will draw more attention."

Éponine shakes her head and begins to move across the deck. They are as lost as she, and the knowledge brings no comfort.

Her steps are made with a measured slowness; though she knows her own movements will make no difference in the scheme of it, moving quickly feels _wrong_ somehow. Still, it takes her where she wants, and soon she is standing before their fearless captain.

Who may not be so fearless after all; worry, at least, is evident, not readable in his eyes but etched in his stance, in the tense way he is holding himself as she comes to stand beside him.

"The _Sentinel_–" She begins, but she doesn't know what to say, and then it doesn't appear to matter; he nods, and it is understood.

The ship is drawing closer and closer still, and she watches its path with worried eyes before she speaks up again. "Will we fight?" she asks quietly.

He sends her a sidelong glance, and then his eyes turn back to the ship. "If it comes to that."

"Will it?"

His eyes to her again. She wants to read the depth of his expression, wants to see what he thinks, see if he is worried, as she is; _this is where I have been happy, have you known_? _When we are so close to falling to bits, did you know?_

But if she is not careful she will be pulled in, and she cannot imagine she will last long like that.

So she pulls her cap more firmly over her head, squares her shoulders, and fixer her gaze upon him more resolutely, and there is the barest hint of a smile, grim though it is, when he says: "Be ready."

And the _Sentinel_ is so close now and she can hear her Amis beginning to rush down the stairs, preparing for the worst.

"Be careful," she responds. Then Éponine hesitates just a moment, just long enough to, on impulse, tug on one golden curl. "Don't get lost in it, bourgeois boy."

And then she is descending, running with the urgency of anyone in her situation, of a woman who has only just discovered how much she has to lose and clings desperately to it, prepares to fight as she once did, with all the resentment of old burning away and up into clean anger, an unwillingness to lose this.

(She has always fought as if there was nothing, and this was true; all that would be lost was her, and what loss was that, really?

Now she is made to feel as if that it would have the etchings of a tragedy, after all, and she will fight, now that everything is at stake, for the ones who have given her that much.

She has always been selfish.)

Down she goes, and down farther, to the cannons she has never _personally_ seen in action, to stand by Bahorel, and though she tries not to, Éponine cannot quell the sense that it's decided the moment she hears voices, faintly, from above in this strange stillness.

She hears them talk; she hears the snap of indignation and the faint rumble of insistence; hears _justice_ and _crimes_ and _surrender_; hears her pulse rush like waves through her ears.

She waits –

And a cannonball rips through the ship.

She does not see it – is not even near it – but she hears it, feels the ship rock upon first impact and shudder in the aftershocks.

And there it is.

Dimly, she takes note of a ship in the distance, sails billowing, when she lifts the hatch; but this is deemed unimportant, and subsequently ignored in favor of rolling the cannon forward.

She has never loaded a cannon before, never needed to, and she is clumsy at it, cursing herself for every second lost with a fervency that nears feverish.

Between shots, she must clean it. If she is not thorough, lingering powder will ignite, and then there is _danger_, but her hands cannot move quickly enough to calm her fears, and her heartbeat takes to thudding against her bones, mimicking the encompassing sound of cannon fire.

It is fired once, twice, and then a third time, and all the while, she is straining to keep it in place.

She keeps on, though, until they switch out and she is running for powder, each step quickened when she catches the flash of Enjolras' red coat in equal parts relief and fear, fear that the _Sentinel_'s next hit will put an end to it.

The _Barricade _is strongly built, but then, so is the _Sentinel_. They will fire until there is nothing left to fire.

One or both of them will be sunk. There is no other option; no way to stand down.

They run out of ammunition shortly after Éponine finds her feet have become damp from the back and forth trips, and this is how she knows they are sinking.

They are driven up, carrying each other to stand steady against the violent trembling and rocking of the _Barricade _beneath them. There is panic soaking into every breath, and blood staining their clothes; though there has been no cannon fire for some minutes, the air she sucks into her lungs tastes of sparks.

She is tired, tired, tired, exhaustion seeping its way to her bones. There are a myriad of little cuts adorning her arms, and she split her lip when she slipped on the stairs, and she _tried so hard_ and now the _Sentinel_ will render that null, and her Amis are not _ready_ for this kind of end, should _never_ be ready.

From her side, from the too-young Atlas with the weight on his shoulders there a squeeze of her hand, and for the briefest moment she laments that she is adding her own burden to his, that she could not lighten it.

And then –

_And __**then**__ – _

There is the dull boom of a cannon and the sound of splintering of wood, and Éponine watches in fascination as the _Sentinel_'s mast begins to give way.

Slowly at first, as if she is imagining it, and then all at once – it topples. She traces it back to the source and she has to gape because _this doesn't happen_.

It comes from the ship she took note of, narrow and _almost_ delicate, and elegant in the way its white sails catch the wind and she remembers – the stories of the ghost ship, the never-been-caught ship, the always-slips-away ship, she remembers Cosette's carefully worded letter and dodging questions she'd been asked, hedging and smoothing over details. At the time, Éponine thought little of it, but maybe, maybe, maybe –

It is a small chance, but it's better than nothing.

(At the very least – if she is wrong – well, they do not _directly_ want to go after them. It's not as though they can expect to collect a reward from the _Sentinel_.

She tugs on Enjolras' hand, still intertwined, and has to shout her "come on, come on–!" to be heard, though they are all gathered together, and even if they don't know what she _might_ (really, what kind of coincidence is that, that he would be her Lady's _father_, it is no sense at _all_) they know this ship is certainly a better bet than their dear, mangled one.

And they run, they run, out of their almost shelter, aiming for this ship, for the _Fantine_.

Her heart gives a painful little stutter when it is directed _closer_, and _oh_, they may just live through this, as their sinking _Barricade_ becomes parallel, and the distance is close enough to cross, with caution, caution which, strangely, must come in the form of leaping the distance.

She is the last – she _must_ be the last, they all must live or she will never again find her redeemed happiness, never – and she wobbles forward as she lands.

A hand grasps her arm and pulls her steady, and she is greeted by a face that is soft in its kindness despite the tenseness of the situation, a face that bears a smile as eyes turn back to the _Sentinel_ which is in no condition to pursue now, all belonging to a person who says to her, "you are just the way Cosette wrote."

She is grinning, grinning, grinning, even as she knows the _Barricade_ is lost, even as she knows the _Sentinel_ is only temporarily disabled, even as her knees are nearly buckling in exhaustion, because they are _alive_, they have _done_ it, because the relief in her Amis voices could make her _week_ right now, because _this_ ship's crew are already at work and pulling away.

They sail on.

* * *

A/N: I took way too long on this because I didn't want to screw up when we're so close to the end and then I had to rush since it's so late and oh gosh, I really hope you're not disappointed and that none of this comes across as the gross misuse of a deus ex machina and you probably are and it probably does I am so sorry. (This is probably going to be one of those stories I completely rewrite, months down the line. It needs it.)  
I hadn't remembered, before I started, how _bad_ I was at writing romance. In fact, I should probably be writing something with more of a focus on just Enjolras and Éponine, to practice their interactions. I'm always so, so grateful to hear your lovely reviews. Every chapter has me thinking, 'well, that was _okay_ but it could have been better...' so this has been really unexpected and encouraging and – wonderful, really.


	35. You can't invite a pirate to a wedding

The rumors, in their intensity, have reached even here.

Of course, _here_ they are diluted down to whispers soft and insubstantial enough that it took _hours_ to really get the _beginnings_ of a picture of it, and are always punctuated by little comments of "how frightful!" (If she smiled to herself, then, it was easily dismissed as pre-wedding dreaminess.)

But even still, despite the frustration, the information gets through.

The _Barricade_ is sunk, that is true, but that was not the end of it. No, it is said that shortly before the _Sentinel_ came into the harbor, there was another – the strange, ghost-like ship called the _Fantine_ that, if further rumors are to be believed, now bears the Amis.

It would be strange, how she seems to suddenly understand the day her father arrives at the estate, if Marius had not been so anxious to ensure that her father is satisfied with him.

(Cosette had repeated what he had told her, before, when she had still held some lingering worries about whether Monsieur Gillenormand really thought of her as a worthy choice, not that it would stop her – "of course he does. How could he not?" as if it was the simplest, most obvious thing in the world – and she'd laughed then because he flushed so dark it overtook his freckles, and because his smile was as infectious as always.)

And, too, it made him wonder less at the reasons for her father's sudden reappearance, and accept the simple explanation that there is someone to take over his work for him, now; she tells Marius of the Amis, of course, but she will leave out the connection to her father until rumors have quieted down a little.

And it meant that she could have her wish, that Jean would be at her wedding.

("You look lovely," Marius murmured just before, a soft awe in his voice.

"You always say that," she had responded, twisting to gently loop her arms around his neck. "Sometimes I think you would believe me lovely in sackcloth," she teased.

"You would," came his reply, and it is the earnest note in his voice that gave her cheeks an extra tinge of pink.)

Now, her father is proud, beaming as he converses with Monsieur Gillenormand, but she can't help but feel the absence of one who is missing.

"I wish she could have come," she murmurs to her husband – the word brings with it a pleasant sensation of warmth and her smile brightens all the more – of only an hour as they dance (and he is a _dreadful_ dancer, but somehow this only adds to her happiness, the way he takes to it).

"You can't invite a pirate to a wedding," he reminds, because even if all else now begin to know her as Julien Jondrette, accompanying the dread Amis, Éponine Thénardier would still have just as much trouble slipping in unnoticed. The smile that lit up his face from the moment she stood before him is still present, and his words are meant to be light, but she knows that Éponine is a dear friend to him, and he is missing her loss.

(He has always been easy to read, ever since the first time she had seen him, since they had seen _each other_, and he had stared so long he had walked into a tree.)

"I know," she says, and in that moment her gaze alights on a dress that is darkly green and roughly made and entirely ill-fitting, on the tangle of dark hair that was probably lovely when it was first arranged and of _course_ Éponine cannot be bothered to keep it in place, and of _course_ she wouldn't tell them she came until they spotted her themselves.

The girl wearing it has her hand on her hip and her mouth turned up into a smile in a way that seems to say '_what took you so long?_' and Cosette's own smile turns mischievous and mirthful all at once.

"But I can invite a friend."

* * *

A/N: So there it is. No epic tale of romance, but an adventure all the same. It feels like the end of an era – one that's been grand, and so much fun, believe me. Thank you so, so much for every bit of wonderful, positive feedback I have gotten from you lovely people, and for taking the time to read.


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